The Werewolf
by chedevy
Summary: Draco's reluctance to kill rears its head yet again, and earns him severe punishment from the Dark Lord. The stigma of his new werewolf condition follows him to Hogwarts, where he is compelled to repeat the year. Meanwhile, Hermione endeavors to figure out what exactly is wrong with Draco Malfoy after the war while trying to make her relationship with Ron work...
1. A Biting Rebuke

**Sunday; 12 April 1998, 11:22 p.m.  
Malfoy Manor**

"_Crucio!_"

In a room wreathed in complete darkness if not for the flames dancing vividly in a marble fireplace, a high-pitched scream resounded against the walls. On and on and on it kept going, until the voice choked, wailed shrilly, and then began screaming anew.

Draco Malfoy succeeded in keeping his wand steady and his eyes fastened on the figure writhing on the floor as he held the curse. Although practically impassive in appearance, in his mind Draco was struggling to keep the shivers of revulsion in check, fighting to block out all the noise, and to keep the image of the woman's twisting body from registering in his brain. The cries of pain coming from his victim were now hoarse, her body struggling for breath, even as she couldn't stop herself from crying out in agony.

Almost unseeing, Draco watched as she arched her back grotesquely while clawing at her chest, arms, and face, as though she couldn't decide where the pain was located. This was probably true, Draco thought, as that was exactly how the Cruciatus Curse affected the body – he should know, having been both the recipient and the caster of it on various occasions.

The woman was choking on her blood and saliva now, and finally, after some twenty seconds of torture, Draco jerked his wand away. All of a sudden, he felt as if all the air in the room increased twofold as he swallowed a gulp of oxygen. He struggled for composure then, though, forcing his breath to steady, and willing his hands to stop trembling. Despite the fact that his eyelids felt heavy, Draco was wide-awake. It was the backlash of having Dark magic swirling in his veins and buzzing in his ears, polluting his blood – somehow making him lethargic and nervous, drugged and alert, all at once. This strange adrenaline-induced excitement was mixed with dread at what he was being made to do yet again, and only the knowledge that he was being watched prevented Draco from clutching at his erratically beating heart. He couldn't show too much emotion, not here, not in front of –

"I have not yet told you to stop, have I, Draco?"

Not in front of the Dark Lord. For, indeed, Lord Voldemort stood some few steps away from the young blond and the sobbing woman, the pallor of his skin a great contrast to the black robes he wore, his slitted red eyes glinting coldly as he regarded the scene before him. Besides Draco, the prisoner, and Voldemort, in the room, hidden somewhere in the shadows, was Wormtail as well as, strangely, Fenrir Greyback, who frequently emitted low, animal-like growls. Draco was used to those growls by now, and so they didn't faze him anymore, like they used to.

He raised his wand again and started saying the incantation, but was interrupted.

"No." It was the Dark Lord, of course. "No... I do not want you to use the Cruciatus Curse anymore." Draco set his jaw and waited; which of the Dark spells would it be, then? The one that peeled strips of skin from the victim's body, or the one that liquefied muscles? Anxious, he could already taste the bile. "I want you to do something else today, Draco... I want you to kill her."

The air in the room was suddenly gone once more. The hairs on the back of Draco's neck stood on end as he felt his Master's stare resting solely on him now, inhuman and unfeeling, yet cruelly expectant. Even so, watching the helpless victim of his latest violence, Draco could only clear his dry throat, stalling. He wanted to, wished he was able say those two words, to prove his worth to the Dark Lord, but he was weak. This was one order he could not fulfil. His arm wavered.

"What are you waiting for?" Voldemort's high-pitched, ice-cold voice reached him again, and Draco resisted a wince. He took in the prisoner's trembling form, her torn clothes, matted hair, and pallid complexion underneath the stains of grime and blood, and he swallowed back the rising bile. Hoping against hope that he wasn't really be expected to kill, Draco stood motionless. He hadn't been ordered to kill ever since the Astronomy Tower fiasco, he'd somehow evaded that particular command for nearly a year. In his mind, he could see Dumbledore, wandless and somehow weakened, but fearless all the same...

"Do it! Do not hesitate this time, Draco, you know what the consequences are... _Kill her!_"

_Weak, weak, weak..._

Already he could almost feel the pain of the Cruciatus on his skin and beneath it, in his muscles and bones. Glancing back at the woman lying on the floor, he wasn't even sure if she was aware of her surroundings any longer – her eyes were wide and wild, but her sobs had quieted down and she barely moved. Maybe she'd passed out from exhaustion, maybe she was in shock; Draco tried to gather his resolve, but it was in vain. He wasn't able to take a life, not that of an innocent. In the long run, it turned out that he might be a coward, a bastard, and altogether a bad person, but a monster, Draco was not.

Voldemort must have noticed the way thoughts were taking his youngest Death Eater, for the serpentine face contorted in a mixture of displeasure and an expression of malicious intent. "You dare disobey me yet again... That is much to answer for, young Malfoy, and Lord Voldemort does not look upon insubordination lightly. Look at me!"

Steeling himself, Draco did. Immediately, he felt pressure against the barriers of his mind, a clear sign of being subjected to Legilimency, and he allowed it, fully aware that attempting to keep the Dark Lord from invading his thoughts and emotions was out of question. Memories flashed by his eyes like a kaleidoscope as the Dark Lord sorted expertly through them, ultimately settling on looking into his most recent ones. Draco felt himself experiencing exactly what he'd felt scarcely two minutes ago – and it was not absolute hatred for the Mudblood, or complete obedience for his Master, as a model Death Eater should feel, but a weary kind of acceptance along with resentment and anger for having to be in this situation. His thoughts were running through his head in a tumble of words, and the ones the Dark Lord paid special attention to were those pertaining to not being a monster. Voldemort's presence pulled away from his mind after a while, and Draco was left gasping for air when the unpleasant sensation faded.

He could hear Greyback laughing raucously in the background, the sound getting louder in Draco's ears as he regained his senses. It wasn't the werewolf's jeering, however, that Draco was worried about; for a long moment Voldemort simply stared at him, the very picture of stillness and coldness, like a snake preparing for an attack – or, perhaps, calculating what the best line of attack would be. He raised his wand. On reflex, Draco closed his eyes, waiting for the onslaught of agony that would come with a hiss of _Crucio_, the sensation of being stabbed repeatedly by a thousand scorching-hot knives, the feeling of having his whole body on fire... however, nothing like this happened.

There was a harsh rustle of heavy fabric, and then silence; the woman lying on the ground was still completely motionless. As he peeled back his eyelids, Draco was vaguely taken aback to see that the room was somewhat brighter now, a very faint silvery light reflecting on the marble floor and on the polished surface of a long wooden table situated in the centre of the chamber. When he turned his head, he saw that the curtains to the windows had been opened by, he figured, the Dark Lord's wandless magic, and outside the sky was the colour of obsidian, the moon barely a glow behind the clouds.

"It is a full moon tonight," Voldemort said almost musingly; Greyback made an appreciative noise.

Suddenly stiff, Draco risked a glance at his Master's unsightly face, having finally sensed that his focus wasn't on him anymore, and... he froze on the spot. A drop of cold sweat ran down the side of Draco's neck when he saw that the Dark Lord was smiling. And it was an awful, cruel smile. Although directed at the cloud-enshrouded moon, Draco knew, somehow, that the smile was meant for him. What he heard next froze the blood in his veins.

"Wormtail, leave us. Greyback, you stay."

With an obsequious bow to the Dark Lord, Wormtail left.

"Twice now you have refused to carry out my command, Draco."

Swallowing thickly, Draco turned his head back to Voldemort; his scarlet gaze was still locked on the clouded moon. "My Lord..."

"Silence," Voldemort hissed. "Twice now you have failed me. Why is it that you are so afraid to kill, I wonder? Is it the prospect of going against the nature, slaying another human being?" Whirling around, he gave a mocking laugh which Greyback echoed gutturally. "Mudbloods and blood-traitors!" he intoned loudly. "Vermin upon the Earth! We do not have pity for those, Draco, for the unworthy of existing in the new order. Nonetheless... you hesitate. Unable to kill, and then, even at my behest, you are reluctant to torture."

Regardless of whether that statement was true or not, Draco wanted to protest – except that he couldn't. Petrified, with his tongue as heavy as lead in his mouth, he listened as the Dark Lord analyzed the thoughts and feelings he'd discovered earlier via Legilimency. "You believe that by destroying the innocent you will become a monster. You think yourself above murder, is that not right, Draco? Weak!" he hissed with sudden vehemence. "Your pure blood is wasted on you! I do admit in that aspect you are very much like your father – Lucius is a great failure to me as well. Even when you had Potter completely in your grasp two weeks ago, you still could not manage to keep him locked in your house long enough for me to arrive... The Malfoy family have disappointed me one too many times now, Draco. However, rest assured," the deadly whisper sent cold shivers down Draco's spine, "that you will compensate." Voldemort spoke to Greyback then, "You came prepared, I trust." His tone clearly promised retribution if that was not the case.

"Of course, my Lord," Greyback responded gleefully.

Through his stupor brought about by alarm, Draco managed to retain his rationality. He knew he was in trouble. He was going to pay, and not only for his own shortcomings, but for the past errors of his family, as well. Somehow he'd managed to incense the Dark Lord enough to deserve punishment more severe than a round of the Cruciatus Curse, and he had a fairly good idea what sort of punishment involved both a full moon and a werewolf.

"N-no! My Lord, please, I can..." Draco raised his wand at the unconscious woman once again. "I will –"

But before Draco had time to gather his will and rectify his earlier mistake, a flash of green light had already shot out of Voldemort's wand; the woman twitched once and then went absolutely still, no breath escaping her lips. Wide-eyed, Draco snapped his head towards the Dark Lord, but the wizard was already striding out of the room.

"You have had your chance and you spoiled it. You have displeased me greatly, Draco," he turned around then, his red eyes gleaming malevolently. "It is most curious, though – you were so concerned about becoming a _monster_. I do wonder how you will feel about learning the literal meaning of that term."

And then, before even reaching the doors, he Disapparated from the manor. Draco licked his cracked lips; he was now extremely aware of Greyback's presence and the wolfish grin he wore.

"I do so love the smell of your fear, Malfoy," the werewolf rasped, and Draco looked at him with a grimace of utter revulsion. He'd always,_always_ hated this repulsive creature – but as a Death Eater's son, and later as a Death Eater himself, he'd never had to genuinely fear him before. Now, though, Draco didn't have the shield of his status or family name, anymore. He raised his wand instead, which, to his fury and alarm, instantly flew to Greyback who'd merely flicked his hand. Greyback's grin stretched to alarming proportions. "Whoops. Should've used it when you still had it, eh? But that wouldn't be much fun, would it, boy? I like a chase, not a struggle, after all..."

Draco cursed loudly. He'd never been so angry with himself in his life. He couldn't believe he'd lost his only means of protection in such a hopeless situation, and so quickly at that. He raged mentally at his own thoughtlessness, aware that he should have seen from the beginning the underhand move on Greyback's part, regardless of his state of distress. He was practically a sitting duck now.

"Come now, don't look like that," the werewolf laughed hoarsely; then he casted a glance outside the window. "Just a while longer and we're going to play, Malfoy... What's that? I can see you're dying to say something, so go ahead, don't be shy..."

Edging towards the doors, with Greyback advancing on him slowly, Draco felt terribly like prey. "Go fuck yourself," he spat, his jaw tight.

Greyback's enthusiastic countenance faltered somewhat as he growled, "Well, aren't you a disrespectful whelp. Evidently you've got your priorities mixed. But I'll teach you a lesson, I will... That's no way to speak to your new –"

Abruptly, he cut off. The room suddenly became brighter and brighter as the clouds shifted – then, everything stilled. Outside, the moon was now entirely in the view, large and round, it shone like a beacon amidst the starless sky.

A horrible snarl tore from Greyback's throat then, and in the moonlight Draco could see clearly the werewolf transforming. His face and limbs started lengthening, his already stocky body growing. Tufts of fur began sprouting from his neck and face, his ears changing into those of a wolf, and in his open mouth teeth could be seen becoming longer and sharper. A noise of clothes ripping made Draco snap out of his trance. At once, he spotted his chance and shouted, "_Accio_ wand," hoping to heavens that his attempt at that much wandless magic would be successful.

It was. The wand twitched in the werewolf's now clawed fingers, about to free itself from the inhumanly strong grip... However, then a spasm of pain made Greyback tighten his hold impossibly more, and the inevitable happened. The wand broke in half with a sharp SNAP that drowned in the growls reverberating all throughout the room. Although quite horrified, Draco didn't have time to grieve that loss. With no wand to protect himself with against the werewolf, his brain registered only one thing he could do: run.

He didn't care about Voldemort at that moment; the thought of resignedly accepting his punishment was as far from his mind as could be. Death Eater or not, Draco was, above all, a Slytherin, and a Malfoy to boot – his self-preservation instincts were rather keen, and right now they were screaming at him to get the hell out of the room.

Normally, his first idea would be to Disapparate, however it was a well known fact among the Death Eaters that, due to a conveniently placed Anti-Disapparation Jinx, only Voldemort was able to perform that bit of magic within Malfoy Manor. Therefore Draco didn't so much as think of taking his chances. Instead, he dropped the pretences, spun around, and darted for the door. Having reached it in a few large steps, he tried the handle. The door was locked – he knew perfectly well in the back of his mind that it would be the case, but it did nothing to ease his increasing dread. Cursing, he spun around again, wild-eyed and desperate, searching for something he could use as a weapon... when there was another loud growl from the werewolf. Draco glanced in that direction in time to catch a pair of yellow eyes settle on him with a predatory gleam.

Then the werewolf howled. The transformation was complete.

The beast Greyback turned into was large, without a doubt much bigger than an average wolf, with hard muscle and grey, bristled fur. Its head and body were lowered, as if preparing to attack, and its teeth bared, two long canines protruding from the gums. Draco didn't stand in place long enough to observe the werewolf further. Impulsively, he made a move towards the table in the middle of the room, and the next thing he knew he was tackled to the ground; he'd barely made one step before the werewolf positively leaped through the eight metres gap between them.

Grunting in shock and discomfort, Draco swung back his arm in an attempt to throw the beast of himself, but it was futile; he felt as if his elbow connected with steel. "Fuck!" he hissed as sharp jabs of pain ran up and down his arm. Furious and desperate, wanting nothing more than to have full control of his body and then to actually kill Greyback, he reached back blindly and managed to grab a fistful of fur and some loose skin at the neck. The werewolf snarled, but Draco already pulled sideways as hard as he could, until the snarl turned into a satisfactory yelp. That short moment of inattention let Draco turn his body around underneath the werewolf's weight. That was as far as he got, however. In a second, Greyback had one front paw on his chest while the other held his right shoulder firmly to the floor, rendering him practically devoid of feeling in that same limb.

"Fuck! Get off me, you fucking mutt!"

A dribble of gooey saliva connected with his cheek in response, the foul breath of the werewolf hitting his nostrils. Meeting Greyback's gaze, Draco tried to raise his left arm with every intention of gouging those damned eyeballs out, but he was too late. The werewolf ducked his head, its muzzle suddenly at the juncture between Draco's neck and shoulder. It opened its jaws wider, its pointed canines gleaming in the moonlight... Draco moved abruptly again, though it did nothing to avoid the bite. Those jaws closed on his shoulder with alarming strength, large, sharp teeth sank into his skin and muscle, slicing through both with ease, and then encountered his bone, ultimately breaking and shattering it to pieces. Draco cried out at the onslaught of pain, his world narrowing down to the mess his shoulder indubitably became, the werewolf's saliva already spreading like poison through his veins.

In his agony, while Draco missed the moment when Greyback's teeth withdrew from his body, he did realize when the heavy weight of the beast unexpectedly lifted from his torso. Panting, his throat raw from screaming, he forced his eyes to open, blinked away the dizziness. Through his blurred vision, he saw that the werewolf had backed off slightly – its bloodied mouth was opened seemingly in a grin and its eyes, strangely cognizant, fixed on him.

In spite of pain and blood loss, Draco somehow managed to stay relatively focused. He was aware why Greyback wasn't ripping his throat out at that very second. He remembered Voldemort saying "I trust you came prepared," and he knew the Dark Lord was really inquiring whether the werewolf had ingested his Wolfsbane Potion prior to the full moon today. Draco realized his punishment had been planned right from the start, before he so much as looked at the Mudblood woman, before he even attended the meeting with his Master.

His pure blood he'd always been so boastful about was to be tainted. He was to become a monster. A werewolf.

He didn't even have the strength to cry. The last thing he saw before blacking out was Greyback nuzzling the cheek of the dead woman lying a few metres away from Draco. There was a hungry growl, and then a sound of tissue being ripped from the bone. Chewing. Loud gulping. Then, blissfully, silence.


	2. The Troubling Turnabouts

**Wednesday; 15 April 1998, evening**

Draco awoke to the sensation of every fibre of his body hurting. His head throbbed, his eyes stung beneath his heavy lids, and his lungs appeared to be on slow-burning fire. His heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest one moment, and then stop beating altogether the next. While his throat was, seemingly, still in bloody shreds from screaming, his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The worst, though, was, by far, his shoulder. It felt like that was where the source of all his suffering was located – the core of pain Draco had not known before. It throbbed like his head and burned like his lungs – radiated heat in waves that were blazing and freezing at once, each as long as one beat of his heart, and each carrying the sensation of thousands crawly insects.

A low noise escaped him as Draco slowly came to, but he hardly cared. His mind was blank. However much he tried to remember what had happened, his memory wasn't forthcoming. After a few minutes of simply lying down, for he knew now that this was the position he was in, Draco opened his eyes.

At the first contact with light, he shut his eyes right back. The stinging behind his lids grew instantly, and he fought to resist the tears. His headache was _raging_. Yet another lengthy moment passed before Draco attempted to see again, and this time it was more successful, although no less of an effort for his feverish body. With slitted gaze, he took in the bedside table on which a candle faintly burned, casting an orange glow to the dark green walls in a room he recognized as his own. He was in his bedroom in Malfoy Manor, lying down in his large four-poster bed, with no idea whatsoever how he got here in such a miserable state.

Had he been drinking his father's Firewhisky again? Smoking some suspicious plants? Draco toyed with the ideas in his head for half a minute before he dismissed them. Somehow he knew, in his subconscious mind, that something serious had happened which put him in his current position – just as he knew that it had to do with the Dark Lord.

Perhaps he'd gotten hit with the Cruciatus Curse one too many times, Draco thought blearily, sleep already taking hold of his brain again. Maybe he'd displeased the Dark Lord in some way, and was chastised for it. That notion yanked some invisible string in Draco's mind, and his focus zeroed in on it, like a vulture might on a piece of carrion. He couldn't tell what the latest Death Eater meeting had been about, or when it was. Struggling to stay awake, he concentrated harder. He recalled standing in the drawing room of the manor, a woman writhing on the floor as he tortured her. He remembered the Dark Lord's red irises narrowed at him in malice. An image of a full moon staying suspended in the fathomless sky came to mind, and Draco remembered he'd been terrified. The Dark Lord had been very angry with him back then...

Then, Draco remembered Greyback, and he froze on the bed, his eyes flying wide open, his heart missing a beat. Greyback... And now it was all coming back – his own refusal to kill, the Dark Lord's wrath at the Malfoy family, Greyback's transformation, glinting yellow eyes of a predator, the werewolf's howl... the feeling of sharp teeth biting through his shoulder. Draco tightened his jaw, welcoming the pain for once, and let his eyelids fall shut.

He'd been bitten. Infected. Greyback's saliva was coursing in his bloodstream now, which meant he was going to become a werewolf himself. Basically was one already, only had to wait for the next full moon for the disease to expose itself...

His burning throat constricted with a hard swallow, and Draco fought back a sob. He could hardly imagine himself in a situation worse than his current one that didn't include his own death. He'd rather have had his arm severed, or his sight taken away. Being a werewolf meant absolutely no future, Draco knew. If people found out he was infected, even in a world where the Dark Lord prevailed, he would be despised and ostracized. Regardless of his wealth and family name, his now favourable social standing would be lost irrevocably in an instant, and his very presence would invoke feelings of hatred, disgust, and fear in those around him – he would become everyone's personal anathema. He knew all this, because that was how he, himself, had always felt about werewolves walking freely among wizards and witches.

Never had he pictured himself in such a position – he'd been turned into one of the things he'd wished extermination on. Swallowing again, Draco made an involuntary sound that was neither a groan, nor a whimper, and then...

"Draco..."

His eyes snapped open. It turned out he wasn't alone in the room, like he'd initially assumed. While his heartbeat sped up, Draco took care to move as little as possible turning his head to the other side, more mindful than ever of the dull pounding in his skull. He was met with the sight of his mother's wane figure at his bedside. She was sitting on a gothic looking chair, her long blond hair loose and her face paler than usual. She didn't look frightened, or even repulsed by him though – only uncertain and worried. He took small confidence in this.

"Oh, Draco," Narcissa Malfoy breathed despairingly, "How are you feeling, darling?"

Draco made an effort to speak, but what emerged from his mouth was merely a hoarse croak. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat, and tried once more. "Mother. 'M fine."

In truth, fine was one thing Draco was not. Talking to his mother about his actual frame of mind wasn't a thought he liked to entertain at the moment, however – the action would hurt both physically and otherwise. In fact, Draco intended to evade addressing his predicament for as long as he could, considering he'd just woken up several minutes ago. His mother, though, obviously had other ideas.

"I worried about you so, Draco; you were asleep for three whole days! After Greyback..." she cut off, her eyes searching his face. Guessing it was a cue for him to deny having been bitten, Draco remained silent. "Your shoulder... Is it hurting a lot? We didn't call a Healer, as your father was against it, but I have read up a bit on your... disease, and... now that you have awakened, the infection is said to have mostly settled – the worst is behind you." There had been noticeable strain in her voice when she said the words 'disease' and 'infection'. Draco only nodded; he didn't think he could speak without choking right now.

"Darling, I'm so sorry –"

"Mother –" There was that croak again. He had to clear his throat. "It's fine. Don't... What did Father say?"

The question tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Truthfully, he'd just grasped at the first thing that came to his mind, because he didn't want to hear his mother apologize. When the word 'father' was actually out in the open, though, Draco realized he had no desire to hear the answer at all. Dealing with his father's disappointment was one thing – over the years, he got used to it. But when the disappointment was bound to reach a scale much greater than mere school grades and Quidditch, when it actually concerned the Malfoy bloodline, it was a different thing altogether. He didn't want to think about Lucius Malfoy's reaction to the news that his only heir became a werewolf; the image was making him physically sick.

"Your father is... very confused right now, Draco. He doesn't know what to think. You can imagine he was very surprised when we found out about..." she trailed off. Draco said nothing. "That isn't to say he is mad at you, darling, of course not! He is just... give him some time to come to terms with your new situation. Let him gather his thoughts – you know how much blood purity means to him. But no matter what, he loves you, Draco, and he always will – never doubt that."

.

* * *

.

The next couple of days constituted possibly the most stressful time in Draco's young life. His mother was trying very hard to make him as comfortable with his 'new situation' as humanly possible without actually speaking of it, and she took to treating him like one would a traumatised child. In a sense, Draco supposed he was, which only made his teeth grind harder; being on the receiving end of others' pity was certainly never a pleasant experience, but Draco found it exceptionally degrading when the situation didn't benefit him at all.

His father's attitude was even worse – though in a vastly different way. In truth, these days, Malfoy Senior seemed to be in a slightly different world altogether. While his behaviour following that haunting night wasn't nearly as violent as Draco had feared, the unpredictability made it so much more stressful.

Lucius Malfoy at first took to avoiding his son like a plague; then, after the initial shunning, he just slowly returned to his cold, aloof self.

While Draco was initially completely thrown off course, he concluded in the end that the brush-off should have been expected. After being bitten by Greyback, Draco's conversations with his father became stilted, and the silences awkward. He could tell Malfoy Senior was indeed majorly disappointed that his only son was now a half-breed and a _werewolf_, to boot. How humiliating for the family, imagine what the society would say – he could nearly taste his father's upset on his tongue, which was a weird notion when Draco paid attention to his thoughts. It was exactly how it felt, though – like he could somehow sense faint waves of vexation and uneasiness rolling off his parent's shoulders.

While it was Lucius who tried the hardest to avoid remarking upon Draco's new condition, all three Malfoys were, in fact, in denial. Above all, it made Draco wonder how his parents' attitude towards him would change with the next full moon, when the convenient veil of denial was no longer an availability, and when they would be forced to acknowledge the issue. Although Draco was trying to dodge the problem himself, it was proving near impossible. There was just no way to deny it – he was a werewolf. He could feel it in his bones, and in his blood. He could tell something in him was changing, even if he couldn't place accurately what it was.

The Death Eater meetings were more nerve-racking than ever. Draco was only grateful Voldemort hadn't revealed the truth about his condition to the rest of his followers, although that didn't stop the Dark Lord from cruelly taunting and mocking him. It was a bit of a gamble, really, Draco thought – if, someday, one word too many spilled from Voldemort's vicious mouth, Draco's _illness_ would be exposed, and therefore his life forfeit. The young man was extremely careful not to give anything away about himself, but he was helpless in face of his Master's amusement and desire to humiliate.

For that reason, among others, Draco found himself actually hating the Dark Lord, which was a very dangerous thing to do. It was said that Voldemort had the ability to sense people's emotions without using Legillimency, or any other magic. He wasn't sure whether that was even true, but he dreaded how the Dark Lord would react once he discovered Draco's loyalty was far from solid, and that his feelings were essentially becoming quite the opposite from what they should be. For all he knew, though, the Dark Lord could already have been aware of all this, and was just deriving delight from his youngest follower's forced servitude.

One meeting in particular made Draco further convinced of that suspicion. It was April 24th in the late evening, merely twelve days since he'd been given to Greyback. Even before the meeting began, Draco could tell by the increased burning of his Dark Mark, that this summons was something he definitely didn't want to miss, unless he was prepared to reap very severe consequences. Being a minute late for a Death Eater meeting alone was simply calling for trouble, but being late when the Dark Lord was obviously in a bad mood was unofficially the equivalent of a death sentence. Therefore, Draco wasn't surprised at all when barely five minutes after the summons, everybody was already seated at the table in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. The overall atmosphere was very stiff, more so than usual – even Bellatrix looked solemn.

"The time is coming, my friends," the Dark Lord announced to the room at large, his voice as clear and high-pitched as ever. "Soon, Britain will begin to function under my rules. The balance will be restored – we will be on the way to purge the Wizardkind of disgusting Mudbloods and blood-traitors. Soon, everyone will get their respective justice." Those, who didn't pick up on Voldemort's actual state of mind behind the supposedly jubilant speech, started cheering and clapping wildly. "Silence." And the noise instantly died down. Because, indeed, instead of the triumph his words seemed to portray, the Dark Lord's typical cold demeanour was really tinged with restlessness. This slight inconsistency notwithstanding, one thing all Death Eaters could sense collectively was their Master's very genuine excitement. The Dark Lord fully believed in the authenticity of his own words, and so his loyal followers had no reason to doubt them, either – they were now convinced it wouldn't be long before pure-bloods took absolute control of Wizarding Britain.

The meeting went on in a similar manner for the next two hours – with the false zest his conduct belied, Voldemort continued the harangue about the approaching final battle, sometimes quietening the less intelligent Death Eaters who got carried away with their blind fervour and bloodlust.

"The other side is weak, my faithful companions. They console themselves by believing to be above using the _Unforgiveable Curses_," the words were suddenly saturated with mockery, "but in truth, they are simply afraid to be in power. Unable to achieve their goals using any means necessary, they are no threat to us. As we struck, we will exploit that weakness – while those fools stumble uselessly trying not to hurt and kill anybody, we will show no hesitance. Think not of taking prisoners just yet, my friends, as there will be enough time for that once I take the reins. On the battlefield, there will be no place for mercy; unless it comes to Potter, you will aim to kill..." A pause. "Will you not, Draco?"

Seated between his parents, Draco jerked in his chair. "Yes... my Lord." The answer was automatic – anything other than an assent would not have been acceptable.

Seemingly contemplating this, the Dark Lord said, "Will you really... I have doubts, you see, Draco. You do not appear nearly as enthusiastic as some of the others. It does make one wonder about the strength of your resolve as my soldier... and as a pure-blood." Draco could feel his heart beat accelerate. After another beat, "Tell us, Draco, are you a pure-blood?"

The world stopped. His breath caught in his chest, Draco stared at some vague spot on Voldemort's black robes, completely unmoving. He wanted to say that yes, of course he was, except that he couldn't possibly lie to the Dark Lord so blatantly. Because Draco wasn't a pure-blood anymore. He was a half-breed now, which he could feel at all times in the confines of his body, in the different hum of his own blood, even if he hadn't experienced the transformation yet. How was he supposed to respond? It was true Voldemort had made some back-handed remarks concerning his condition a few times before, but they were never such a bold invitation to lie. Draco could tell there was a slight sheen of cold sweat beginning to gather on his skin, and still he didn't react in any way, didn't answer the Dark Lord's query. And as slow seconds passed, Draco hated the wretched creature more than ever – first, obviously, for making Greyback transfer the disease to him, and then, even more, for using it against him.

Just as the other Death Eaters started frowning with confusion and no little amount of suspicion, some hissing at Draco not to disrespect their Lord, Voldemort spoke again, evidently bored. "Two weeks," he said, and the attention shifted back to him; Draco could breathe again. "No more than two weeks, and my power will be entirely unquestioned. I expect all of you to be prepared for the new order that will come with my ruling."

The meeting ended not long after that. Draco couldn't relax one bit for the remainder of the night, however, and he slept not a wink. His mind kept whispering, _"Too close..."_ over and over again.

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* * *

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In the end, it turned out the Dark Lord was right in his premonition regarding the date of the final battle, but completely wrong concerning its outcome. The Light side won; the Dark Lord was, somehow, defeated by Potter, and the majority of the Death Eaters were captured. Draco was in equal measure relieved and alarmed, though, mostly, he was just resigned. His experiences and the war in general made him numb; he was uncertain of what to feel. He dreaded the backlash of the society to the fact that almost the entire Malfoy family was composed of actual Death Eaters, and he positively cringed every time at the thought of going to Azkaban. Then again, he wondered whether there was anything worse than being Voldemort's servant. He was only cheered when he found out Greyback had been killed in a scuffle with some Auror.

What truly rattled Draco out of his mild stupor was the discovery of his godfather's death. He was surprised at how deep the sense of loss he felt was. While relatively close in the past, after his father's imprisonment, Draco was extremely suspicious, embittered, and even hateful towards Snape, believing the Potions Master had intentionally usurped his father's position in the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. Later, when he found out in a very short, inconspicuous article in the _Daily Prophet_ that Snape had actually been a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, he was incredulous. His parents felt just as betrayed at the revelation as Draco, none of them having expected such a turn of events, yet he still mourned the passing of his once favourite professor.

The day the article came out, his mother also accidentally let slip that she'd told Snape about Draco's condition in order to ask him to brew a Wolfsbane Potion for the next full moon. Draco hadn't thought about that aspect at all – he was too caught up in his brooding to ponder how he would actually cope with the werewolf transformation. As it turned out, his godfather hadn't finished the concoction before the final battle, and so Draco's hope was lost. He resigned himself to the fact that in his werewolf form he would be out of his right mind.

He shied away from reflecting on that, however. The full moon was approaching, and the closer to it, the more restless Draco became, Death Eater trials notwithstanding. He was extremely glad that, due to his mother's saving Potter's life at the last second, his family was allowed to stay in the manor while awaiting their own trial, because for seemingly no reason Draco had developed several urges and cravings he couldn't imagine having to contain.

For one thing, while he'd never been an outdoors person before, there was suddenly the need to be as much on fresh air as possible. He felt cramped between the walls of his house, restricted somehow – he needed space. Although the manor was under Ministry supervision following the battle of Hogwarts, so long as he was within the allotted premises on the grounds, he was basically in the clear. Therefore, Draco spent most of his days outside, sometimes wandering aimlessly around, and other times just sitting under shade trees, nearly dozing. It was a while until Draco realised what he actually longed for was a territory. Regardless of how animalistic it sounded in his own mind, it still didn't stop him from appeasing the impulse.

The most notable changes were those in his diet, though.

When he had the craving for raw meat for the first time, Draco disregarded it entirely, brushing it off as a weird aftershock of the war. But as the craving stubbornly remained for the next three days, and he finally connected it with the impending full moon, he figured something had to be done about the issue. Having made certain his parents were occupied and wouldn't disturb him, Draco secretly summoned a house-elf, Riggy, to his room.

"I want you to bring me a bowl of raw meat." He kept his voice quiet, as if afraid of being overheard. "I want it to be beef, and only the best cuts. Make sure it's fresh, and bloody. Now go, and make it quick." Wide-eyed, Riggy made to snap its fingers to Disapparate, but Draco stalled it, "You're not to tell my parents about this – in fact, tell no one."

Ashamed with himself, but just about salivating at the thought of indulging his hunger, Draco slumped in his chair and waited.

When Riggy arrived with his order not a minute later, he dismissed the creature straight away. Then, he all but pounced on the food.

The smell was like that of the most inviting dish he'd ever been served, and the sight of the bleeding tissue made his mouth water so intensely he had to keep himself in check not to drool. He couldn't turn away from the meat if Voldemort himself were to tap his shoulder at that very moment. He lifted one bloody chunk to his face, and, unmindful of all the possible dangers of this action, bit into the rubbery flesh. His senses were instantly overwhelmed. While the taste was nothing special, metallic and still warm, the urge to keep chewing, and to devour the whole contents of the bowl was unstoppable. One after another, he wolfed down the scraps of meat in a manner his mother would have been appalled to witness, and he even gobbled the pieces of bones he encountered. At some point, Draco had the weirdest notion that the strength of his jaws must have increased as the full moon neared, because he knew he couldn't possibly have been able to chew flesh so effortlessly if he were still fully human.

Finally, with a contented sigh, Draco swallowed the last bit down, and leaned back in his seat. The bowl sat on the table in front of him, empty but for the red smears on the surface. Closing his eyes, Draco abruptly pushed the utensil away.

"Oh God," he moaned, as the mortification finally set in. He was truly becoming a monster. He'd utterly lost all control at the mere sight (and smell, and _feel_...) of raw meat, acting like some starved animal, oblivious to everything around him until his hunger was appeased. He wanted to retch, but the fact that he hadn't felt this sated for years betrayed his true sentiments. He could still taste the blood on his tongue, and in actuality, it didn't disgust him one bit – more than that, a feral part of his mind was now filled with satisfaction. Running his tongue across his teeth to gather the remnants of the flavour, Draco wasn't even surprised his canines felt longer than usual – it explained further why slicing through the tissue wasn't more of a difficulty. While he hadn't felt them extending through the haze of his greed, he could now tell, by the tickling of his gums, that the canines were gradually retreating.

Hesitantly, Draco looked at his bloodied hands. It seemed like now that his craving was satisfied, the extreme hunger induced by the smell and sight of blood diminished to a distant hum in the back of his mind.

Greatly discomfited, yet very much satiated, Draco fell into a pleasant sleep that night.

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Thanks to those who faved, followed, and to **Akatsuki'sBloodyNekoNinja** who reviewed!


	3. A Werewolf's Woes

**Saturday; 9 May 1998, afternoon**

Grimmauld Place was just as dingy looking as ever, Hermione Granger reflected critically, her gaze taking in the threadbare carpet that led farther into the house and the wallpaper peeling from the hallway walls. In Hermione's mind, it was ridiculous – the war was over for a week now, and still the house remained exactly the same in its neglect. Surely Harry could find some fifteen minutes to improve his own living conditions? Honestly, she thought with a shake of her bushy-haired head – _men_.

Her musings were interrupted by a sudden exclamation of "Hermione! There you are!" which expectedly came from no other than the householder himself. Indeed, standing in the doorframe of the drawing room was Harry Potter, his black hair unmistakable in its tousled state, and distinctive round glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Come in, come in," Harry urged Hermione cheerily. "We were waiting for you."

At that, Hermione grinned. "Ron's already here? I must be very late, then."

"No, he actually came early, for a change," Harry assured, laughing. "Said he had some interesting news to discuss, but we all know he just wanted to eat second dinner."

"I suppose that means poor Kreacher's working like crazy – with the amounts of food Ron absorbs..."

Just then, Ron's voice called indignantly, "Oi! I can hear you from here!"

Still snickering, Hermione, with Harry in tow, walked into the drawing room, where she instantly spotted a head of bright red hair at the table. Although Ron wasn't eating at the moment, there was an empty plate next to the newspaper he'd been evidently browsing before her arrival. Upon closer inspection, Hermione noticed that it was the _Daily Prophet_.

"So, Ron, have you found any _interesting news _in there yet, or are you still looking?" she asked teasingly. She took a seat on the couch beside him, while Harry sat in the armchair across from them.

"I'll have you know it wasn't an excuse," Ron said with mock-resentment. "The Death Eater trials are starting today, did you know? That's what I wanted to share! Though, I suppose, the dinner was a nice bonus."

Hermione blinked. "Why are you so concerned about the trials? I thought you didn't care much for the captured Death Eaters."

"Of course I care," Ron countered, looking disbelieving. "Those ruddy bastards are finally getting their payback. I'm rejoicing!"

Looking at Harry's slightly downtrodden expression, Hermione could tell he'd already been through that diatribe. It wasn't that she disagreed with Ron (because she most certainly didn't) but listening to him rant and vent about Death Eaters getting less than they deserved wasn't Hermione's idea of spending a Saturday afternoon. Knowing the reason for Ron's resentment, though, she couldn't possibly blame him, as she wasn't the one to have lost a brother. The war had taken its toll, robbing them all of their loved ones – Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, Ted and Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, as well as many others. If venting was Ron's way of coping with his loss, Hermione wasn't about to take it away from him.

"I mean, as much as you can rejoice when dozens of them are still prowling about on the loose," her red-headed friend was saying. "Don't get me wrong, I know Kingsley's doing what he can – he's a good chap – but honestly! How hard can it be to locate a whale like Crabbe Senior? The bastard couldn't be hiding in some hole, since he obviously wouldn't fit in there. Or that balding bloke, Randolph-or-something-Lestrange – can you imagine overlooking that shiny spot on his head? I suppose at least we've got Greyback out of our fur now... not that it'd be difficult to find _him_, what with that gross stench."

"So who are they trying today?" Hermione interjected quickly, taking advantage of Ron's momentary pause. Admittedly, she could have consulted the _Prophet_ still sitting innocuously on the table, but she was too comfortable with her shoulder almost touching Ron's to work out the effort to move.

Ron grimaced. "Dolohov. Bloody nasty, that one. Then again, all of them are."

Hermione remembered Dolohov quite well, thanks to the battle in the Department of Mysteries in their fifth year – she still had a scar on her abdomen from the curse he'd thrown at her. Curiosity getting the better of her, she reached for the paper and, upon opening it, found the right article with no trouble. It was hard to miss – the entire second page was divided in three columns of small photographs, each of which including a short information on the individual Death Eater. The photographs were lined up by the trial dates, which meant Dolohov's was right in the top left corner, and about the first dozen of pictures were separated from the rest by a thick line. These were the Death Eaters who had been in Voldemort's Inner Circle, and who were branded with the Dark Mark – it meant they were also the first in line to face the Wizengamot. The title of the article was concise: _CONFIRMED DEATH EATERS TO STAND TRIAL_.

"Oh, and look who's here," Ron said cheerfully, his finger jabbing something on the page, his arm pressing against Hermione's. Willing her blood not to go to her face, Hermione determinedly fixed her gaze on where the oblivious, infuriating boy beside her was pointing to, and there she saw a familiar sharp-angled face staring back at her.

It was Draco Malfoy, with his cold, grey eyes and distinctive platinum-blonde hair that appeared to be pure white in the black and white photograph. It was a direct frontal shot in which the Malfoy heir was totally still, his countenance absolutely stony, and although the photograph was a Wizarding one, meaning the depicted figure could move, Draco didn't even blink once. Studying the picture, Hermione had to admit that among all these other photographed Death Eaters, most of whom had at some point ruthlessly killed and tortured, Malfoy didn't look out of place at all. It was unnatural that a seventeen-year-old boy could look so cold.

The text next to the picture said, "_Draco Malfoy, 17, accused of Death Eater activity including attempted murder, numerous uses of Unforgiveable Curses, and aiding Death Eaters in breaking into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Member of You-Know-Who's Inner Circle._"

Holding back a sigh at the knowledge that the reporter still refused to use the V-word, Hermione noted there were only ten names on the list before Draco's, his father's being one of them. She wondered whether her schoolyard bully was being held in custody at Azkaban at the moment.

"His trial is scheduled for the 29th," Hermione mused absently, not fully realising she was speaking out loud.

"I say the sooner the better," Ron scoffed. "I hope they give him a lifetime in Azkaban."

Hermione frowned at him. "You don't really mean that," she said.

"Why wouldn't I? The bastard's been a menace to us for years, even after we bloody saved his arse in the last battle. If anyone deserves Azkaban, it's him. Ungrateful prick."

"None of this means he deserves to go to that place, Ron. I'm certainly not a fan of Malfoy, either, but you're just being vicious."

For a few seconds, Ron just gaped at her. "_I'm_ being vicious? Did you forget what he called you when he last spoke to you? Get real, Hermione! The bastard's probably a murderer now, and if not, it's only because he's a coward!"

"No, it would be because he has a conscience, and that's a very redeeming quality, Ron," Hermione said promptly, standing up. She walked over to the armchair Harry was sitting in, observing them quietly, and she perched on his armrest. "I'm not saying Malfoy's completely innocent. I just think he'd got in over his head, and then couldn't find a way out."

"You're mental, Hermione," Ron said, shaking his head slowly. "Why are you defending him, anyway? He's called you a... you-know-what more times than I can count!"

"I'm not defending him – or his actions, for that matter." Hermione sighed, as she crossed her arms. "All I'm saying is that I don't think he deserves Azkaban. Some other punishment – definitely, but Azkaban, no."

Still looking incredulous, Ron directed his stare at Harry, searching for support, but the other boy merely raised his hands in defence. "Oh, no – don't involve me in this. I'm not getting into an argument over Malfoy."

However, judging by the calm, attentive gaze he'd fixed on her earlier, Hermione knew he understood and agreed with her. It was just like Harry, this lack of vindictiveness – he was willing to let go of past grudges and boyhood enmities if it meant justice would be appropriately served. He was going to be a fine Auror one day, she thought with a rush of affection. "Harry is right," was what she said aloud. "I won't let Malfoy ruin this afternoon for us. Ron, do you think I could come over tomorrow?" she asked, changing the topic. "I already miss Molly's cooking!"

Faced with Hermione's beaming smile, Ron couldn't quite retain his sulky demeanour for long. "Oh fine, sure, you know you can come anytime you want," he rolled his eyes, grinning as well. "You too, mate," he said to Harry, "You haven't turned up for, what, four days? Mum's been nagging me to drag you to her. Wants to make sure you're well fed, and all that."

"Sure," Harry grinned. "You know how my godson's kept me a bit occupied lately."

"Oh, and how's little Teddy, by the way?" Hermione wanted to know, her smile widening.

"Great," Harry answered. "He's brilliant, really. Changes his hair colour every time he sees me, though you'd have to look closer to see it, since he doesn't have much hair yet, at all. But he grows like crazy, I swear. Lupin and Tonks would be so proud..."

At that, the three of them sobered somewhat, and a silence descended. Hermione reached for Harry's hand and squeezed it. "Yes, they would be," she said softly. "You're a wonderful godfather, Harry."

"Thanks." He returned her squeeze and then let go. "So, how would you two like a glass of Butterbeer now? Kreacher was rather generous yesterday and gifted me with a whole batch, though I'm still not sure why. He's an odd fellow like that."

The boys were already prepared for Hermione's inevitable lecture on house-elves' rights and their abuse.  
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**Tuesday; 12 May 1998, late evening**

At long last, the night of the full moon came. It was serene and quite warm that whole day, the weather completely at odds with Draco's turbulent mood. For the past few days he'd been angry and depressed in turns, though in both cases the source of his varying emotions was the consuming apprehension.

At half past nine at night, Draco exited his room and headed downstairs, each step echoing hollowly throughout the quiet corridors. His mood was that of someone going to his own execution, and he dressed accordingly, all in black, as though already mourning his own death. Granted, he always wore black those days, but the sentiment remained the same. From the corner of his eye he caught something shifting in the shadows, and his step halted.

"Draco..." The voice belonged to his mother. Of course, he should have realized this sooner – regardless of the distance between them, if he concentrated hard enough, he could smell the faint flowery fragrance of her perfume. He watched as his mother slowly came into view, her thin frame clad in impeccable dark-blue robes, though her posture was stiff and her face showed clear signs of worry. She was clutching a glass of red wine in one hand, which he noted with some surprise, while her other hand danced restlessly around her white throat. Despite the encompassing darkness, Draco could see some blue veins under her skin and the details of embroidery on her clothing. For four days now he'd been aware of his night vision gradually improving, but the discovery still didn't fail to startle him.

"Hello, Mother," he said for the lack of a better reply. Then, he continued his descent to the cellar, undeterred.

"Draco, wait a moment, please." He stopped at the plea, but remained with his back turned. "I thought you might require some assistance with... tonight. If you need me for anything, just say the word, darling. Anything at all –"

"No," Draco said, at last letting his vexation show. "I told you I'll handle it alone." That was true. He was humiliated enough having to lock himself underground to ensure he wouldn't accidentally maul his own parents; he definitely didn't want anyone to see him imprison himself, much less help him with it. "Don't worry, Mother, I promise you'll be safe tonight. I won't even disturb your beauty sleep."

He heard her strangled gasp. "Draco, you know that's not what I –"

"It's fine. You should probably go join Father, wherever he is. He must be getting concerned about you by now, you know – who knows what I may be capable of when it's... Yeah." He started walking again. "See you tomorrow, Mother."

Ignoring her beseeching calls, Draco climbed down the remainder of stairs separating him from the cellar, opened the heavy door, and slipped inside. Upon closing the door back, he was almost sure his heightened sense of hearing allowed him to identify a muffled sob from above, but he squashed the sudden pang of guilt. He knew his mother didn't deserve to be treated so harshly, yet he was so bitter he barely cared. It wasn't his mother who had to deal with this situation. She didn't go into a frenzy at the mere sight and smell of raw meat, and she didn't have to endure constant involuntary changes in her own behaviour. She didn't have to be paranoid about people suspecting she was diagnosed with Lycanthropy. She wouldn't turn into a slavering beast every full moon, like he was about to do in less than two hours. If anything, Draco believed himself to be the one with the right to cry here, not his mother.

Feeling suitably justified, though no less morose, Draco stepped farther into the cellar. Since he'd had the house-elves clean it thoroughly in preparation for this night, it wasn't nearly as grimy or foul-smelling as it had been during the war, however he still had rather unpleasant memories of this place. He also remembered it being absolutely pitch-black, and while that hadn't changed, he could now see everything quite clearly – though, obviously, in very dull colours. The room was utterly empty, which was another thing he'd made sure of before the full moon. Draco had heard stories and he did some reading himself, therefore he knew what a transformed werewolf was capable of doing when trapped in a confined space, with no outlet for the raging emotions and instincts. He had no intention of unconsciously killing himself by means of a broken chair, or some such.

Cringing, he drew out his wand and inspected it in the dark. Since it rightfully belonged to his mother (his own Hawthorn one was, to his knowledge, still in Potter's possession), it didn't serve him perfectly. Nonetheless, he pointed it at the door, saying, "_Colloportus_," and then, just to be sure, he used two more locking spells, having learned both some two weeks prior. Once that was done and he ascertained the door was indeed well and truly locked, Draco could breathe more easily. There was never a doubt in his mind that the door's solidity was enhanced with magic, consequently making it absolutely resistant to brute force alone, so he wasn't afraid about shattering it. However, as Draco looked around, a different kind of worry tugged at his consciousness.

It seemed the wolf in him wasn't quite alright with his actions. The sensation of being caged, even if of his own volition, brought forth feelings of wary apprehension and disquiet. He suddenly became aware of just how low the ceiling of the cellar was, and his chest tightened in response. Before the advancing sense of claustrophobia could actually settle in his brain, however, he crushed it by taking a deep breath. Shaking his head to clear it, Draco somehow managed to convince himself that if he'd never been claustrophobic before, there was no reason to start now.

A little calmer, he waved his wand again and proceeded to cast all silencing spells he was familiar with. Doubtful as he was that his parents were going to sleep peacefully tonight, he would still have a hard time forgiving himself if his loud howls, snarls, and whines could be heard through the manor until morning. Even worse was the thought of the noise reaching other people, outside of the Malfoy grounds. Thanks to his educational reading, Draco was aware a werewolf's howl could travel even twenty kilometres under ideal conditions, and while he wasn't sure how far the sound would carry from underground, he wasn't eager to check. He couldn't risk anyone so much as suspecting his disease – he could only thank the gods that the Ministry supervision didn't include placing any eavesdropping charms on his family home.

Draco let his arm fall to his side as he swallowed hard. All the necessary spells were in place now; only one thing remained for him to do. With deliberate slowness, he walked to the farthermost corner of the cellar, reached out, and fingered a narrow crevice between two stones. There was some empty space behind one of the stones – just enough to hide a thin, several inch long piece of wood. Feeling like he was putting away a part of himself, Draco pushed his wand into the opening, and then reluctantly stepped away. Even though it wasn't even his own wand, the sudden loss he felt was real. This was the point where he set aside everything that he was, his magical ancestry and pure-blood lineage, so that he could become a monster. He still didn't fully accept it, and therefore, for Draco it was possibly the hardest part of suffering from Lycanthropy. He was too proud to simply give up his heritage. Years of being taught about his own superiority over others proved difficult to ignore, even in view of such a humiliating event as being turned into a werewolf.

Taking several more steps back from the place where he'd just concealed his wand, with his jaw tightly set, Draco shed his black cloak, chucked it aside, and slumped against the nearest wall. Although he knew his clothes would be ripped to pieces upon his transformation, he refused the indignity of stripping completely. His role as a human was temporarily completed – now he would wait for the beast to emerge.

The transformation started about forty minutes later, though for Draco it felt like the whole day had passed.

His muscles suddenly seized up, and his breath stuttered. He knew immediately that this was it, that the full moon had just begun, but it did nothing to ease his terror and trepidation. A primal noise escaped his throat, a groan or a growl, he was in no state to tell, and it seemed to echo endlessly in the darkness of the cellar. His eyes were wide and wild, his heart all of a sudden racing madly beneath the confining ribs, and all his senses were at once dulled and impossibly sharp. His jaw was working incessantly for reasons he couldn't understand in his current situation, and though he kept swallowing, he couldn't deal with the unexpected excess of saliva in his mouth. Shuddering and still growling, Draco started clawing at his clothed chest and arms, and his head was tossing restlessly from side to side, back and forth. He'd never felt anything like this before, he knew something was coming, something that had been contained in him for a long time, something powerful and feral. He was terrified and overwhelmed at once, or maybe excited, he couldn't remember. He only knew he wanted to do something, yearned for something he couldn't place, longed for it, to _shred, rip, bite, kill_...

And then came the pain – it was the feeling of being torn apart from the inside, of being set on fire. It was the torment of every bone in his body breaking, and of his muscles being stretched until they burst. Draco tried to scream, but then he realised he was already yelling at the top of his lungs, so great and violent was the sudden onslaught of agony. There was no escape from it. He had to lessen the pain somehow, had to find its source and kill it, and to do so he started to scratch wildly all over his torso, arms, neck, and face. If Draco paid attention, he'd have noticed that his nails had turned into sharp claws, and that he was inflicting rather deep wounds on himself, however he was far past caring.

In spite of what the craze of agony was telling him, his bones were actually growing instead of breaking, though his muscles were, in fact, being stretched to what seemed like absolute limits. His skin was being pulled tightly across the expanse of his enlarging frame, clearly expanding as well, and light-coloured hair started sprouting from his neck and hands. His clothes hung about him mostly in tatters by this point, both as a result of his frenzied hand movements, and because of the occurring transformation itself, and he clawed at them all the harder, needing to be freed of any restrictions. He was snarling and whining uncontrollably now, more animal than human, only aware of the pain, and of his terror at the magnitude of it.

More and more, his skull was elongating, changing his face into a muzzle, and his body was for the most part covered in silvery grey, yellow tinted fur. The skeletal structure of the creature Draco was turning into, on the other hand, wholly resembled that of a wolf now, complete with a four-legged stance, slopping back, and a tail currently tucked between his hind legs.

The transformation wasn't quite finished yet, his body still in the process of adjusting to the extreme alterations it'd just undergone, but Draco wasn't exactly in his right mind anymore. He was on the absolute brink. His last conscious feeling before losing all constraint was that of primal fear, and stirring bloodlust underneath.  
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**Wednesday; 13 May 1998, 10:12 a.m.  
Cellar in Malfoy Manor**

He awoke to the sound of the door clicking open. His mind didn't register much after that, as he was suddenly all too aware of his body hurting all over, though he did make out his mother's voice saying, "Draco, are you..." Then, frantically, "Oh Draco, my darling, my son, oh God..." The sound was getting closer, and in a second, he heard and felt her fall to her knees beside him, her cold hand brushing damp hair from his forehead. Although Draco didn't speak, didn't acknowledge her in any way, he was sure his mother knew that he was conscious. She was checking his injuries now, he thought, because save for the shuddering breaths escaping her throat, she was silent, her trembling hands grazing across his face and shoulders.

There was an odour of urine mixed with blood hovering in the air, putrid and potent, and Draco didn't want to open his eyes to face this new reality. In the long minute since he'd come to, he realized he was lying in a foetal position, still on the stone floor of the cellar. He wished he could fall asleep again, and never wake up.

His mother summoned Riggy, made it fetch a blanket with which he was subsequently covered, and then told the house-elf to Apparate them to Draco's room. The three of them landed soundlessly on the carpet, his mother shaken and pale with worry, and Riggy asking incessantly what else it could do to serve _the young master_. Draco, by that point, wasn't trying to feign unconsciousness any longer. Wrapped in the blanket, he simply sat on his backside, his head in his hands, and silently bemoaned his cursed fate.

"I was so, so worried about you all night, darling," his mother whispered, holding onto his arms. "I know this all must be difficult for you, overwhelming even, but... How are you feeling, Draco? You're injured all over, some of these wounds are still bleeding, and the other –"

"I'm okay, Mother," Draco muttered, voice rough from overuse. Dropping his hands, he clasped his forearms instead. "They're just scratches. It looks worse than it is. I –" He cut off when her hand touched the side of his neck.

"While that may be true, this one here seems like it may be infected. You were so close to... Perhaps we should call Healer MacDougal, I'm sure we could make some excuse for the Ministry –"

"No!" Draco rasped, his eyes shooting up to meet hers. "Nobody can know. The Healer'd recognize the scar on my shoulder."

"I don't care about that, Draco! I don't care if they find out that you're a were–"

"I care!" Draco cried, hoarsely. There was a pregnant pause. "That's my future on the line here."

After another beat, his mother said, "You're right. I'm sorry. I just wish..."

"I know. I'd like to get some sleep now, Mother."

"Of course, darling," she acquiesced, though reluctantly. "Riggy should be able to take care of some of your wounds... Are you sure –"

"Yes. I'll see you later, Mother."  
.

* * *

.

Over the course of the next couple of days, Draco gave up on his denial, and accepted the fact that his life would never be the same as before. He was a werewolf – after the full moon, he could no longer pretend there was still hope for a miracle.

Despite his guarded reluctance to do so, he found himself trying to adapt to his newfound animal tendencies and steadily sharpening senses. He reasoned with himself there wasn't really a choice in the matter – either he accepted those changes, or attempted to further disregard them, the latter of which hadn't been working, anyway. While Draco was a remarkably strong-minded young man, exceptionally skilled at compartmentalising his thoughts and emotions, he had no illusions; he quickly found that his basest instincts worked on a wholly different level, and trying to categorise them was another thing entirely. He knew that he couldn't keep trying to refuse himself forever. It was simply a matter of time before he caved in, and started to actually familiarise himself with the wolf within him.

And indeed, after his first transformation, denying the wolf seemed virtually impossible. It was as if a dam in his brain had suddenly crumbled, opening door to a whole range of new possibilities. His head swam with thoughts of how he could conveniently utilise his enhancing senses in the future, be it at work or in social situations, and even though he was still disgruntled about it, Draco's Slytherin mind kept him in conviction that to relinquish this advantage would be a foolishly naive thing to do. Not to mention, he was dead tired of keeping up the pretence of defiantly resisting his various animal urges. He knew it was useless, especially as they actually seemed to get stronger following his first full moon.

And that was another matter. Despite not being of sound mind while in the werewolf form, he remembered that night well. He could clearly recall the fear, the desperation, the disorientation, and the consuming hunger, but most of all he recalled the desire to kill. It'd been overpowering. At the time, it was all he could think about.

He'd been absolutely overcome by the need to hunt – to find, chase, and catch his prey, and to finally feel the blood pulsing in the overflowing veins just before he sunk his teeth into the flesh. He'd imagined how he would close his jaws around the succulent neck and forcefully clamp to break it, while holding his quarry down with clawed paws. His prey would be struggling against him, panicked and desperate to escape, but he wouldn't let it, only further encouraged by its pained keens, thriving on its terror. Utterly savage, he would dig his teeth deeper and deeper, as deep as he could, pulling, yanking, and jerking his head from side to side, until he heard an unmistakable snap.

Then, unequivocally triumphant, he would growl, long and loud, as a heady feeling of power thrummed through his own veins, his quarry supple in his hold. He'd imagined how, no longer restricted by anything, he would set about consuming the meat, devouring the juicy flesh, as well as the bones with their soft marrow, satiating his irresistible hunger and bloodlust, whilst still being able to feel the blood coursing freely through the lifeless vessels.

And then, finally contented, dictated by the need to announce his success to his companions, he would proudly raise his head to howl, and howl, and howl, until the night became a day again.

Recalling all of that afterwards, Draco had to remind himself yet again that he wasn't human anymore. Although the benefit of possessing improved senses was on many levels mind-altering, the major drawback of it was that he also had to learn to rein in those senses, and to adapt to them. While one door in his mind had been conveniently opened, another, it seemed, was obstructed by something, preventing him from being fully in control of that particular area. It appeared that this area was his instincts.

Draco resented that, as he was tremendously averse to loosening his grip on self-restraint, but he understood some things were just out of his control now. He wasn't quite able to curb his craving for raw meat, just as he couldn't help but long for the adrenaline of hunting, of being a predator chasing its prey. It was all in his blood.


	4. The Trial and the Error

**Friday; 29 May 1998, 9:40 a.m.**

**12 Grimmauld Place**

It was the date of Draco Malfoy's trial. Hermione knew from the papers that his father's had occurred the day before, and she also knew that Lucius was given conviction of a year in Azkaban. She wasn't sure how she felt about that short a sentence for Malfoy Senior. Although it was widely publicised that he had denounced the Death Eaters in the end, if only at the last minute, Hermione found the fact that Lucius still had served Voldemort for a very long time impossible to forget.

"Are you ready, Hermione?" a voice asked from behind her.

"Yes, Harry," answered Hermione as she stood up from Harry's settee and straightened her knee-long pencil skirt. Her bespectacled friend was standing by the doorframe, fiddling with the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt while simultaneously trying to put on his unusually polished shoes. Hermione watched him with some amusement, very unaccustomed to seeing Harry Potter in much other than woollen jumpers and worn-down sneakers, or Hogwarts school robes.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," Harry said, glancing up at her. "I had some trouble with this cursed tie." He pointed to said garment, tied a bit haphazardly around his neck. "I swear the blasted thing's got a mind of its own – I'm half convinced it was trying to strangle me. Well, it obviously didn't know who it was dealing with."

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Of course, oh _Chosen One_." Scrutinising Harry's appearance, she walked over to him and reached to fix his rebellious tie. She stepped away once satisfied with it. "There, better. Now you look neat."

"Thanks – I figured if I want them to take me seriously, I'd better not look like I don't care. You don't look too bad yourself." She was wearing a modest lilac-coloured shirt that she'd tucked into her skirt, and low-heeled shoes. "Shall we?"

Hermione took his proffered arm, and together they approached the fireplace in the drawing room. Harry let her go first, and so she grabbed a handful of Floo powder, tossed it onto the flames, and intoned loudly, "The Ministry of Magic." When she stepped into the now green flames, she vanished. Harry followed soon after.

.

.

As Harry led the way to Courtroom Ten, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible so as not to attract any attention, Hermione nervously patted down her hair, trailing after him. She couldn't help it – she was a bit tense. After all, it wasn't every day that one entered the Ministry Trial Chamber probably filled to the brims with Wizengamot figures. In preparation for this event, she had read all three tomes of _The Past, the Present, and the Future of Trial Holding in British Ministry of Magic_.

Despite Harry's attempts to keep his head down, several wizards and witches they passed still managed to recognise him, and occasionally gasps like, "My goodness! Is that Harry Potter?" could be heard. It seemed that Hermione was either less easily identified or she was simply overshadowed by Harry's presence, for her name was not uttered nearly as often. For that, she was grateful.

Ignoring the whispers and pointed fingers, they quickly approached the elevator, thankful that it'd just stopped on their level, and they stepped in. Of course, fate wasn't entirely on their side. The elevator was already occupied by a handful of people.

"Mr Potter? And Miss Granger! I can hardly believe my eyes!"

"Oh, how wonderful! Do you think you could sign here, please, for my son? He is a huge fan of yours!"

"Mr Potter, I'm so delighted to meet you! I cannot express my gratitude..."

Although they were both very happy to be received with such cordiality, the elevator couldn't descend to Level Ten fast enough. When they finally got off, Harry was smiling, but he looked tired. Hermione knew he was never comfortable with crowds.

The corridor they were in now was empty and bare, and they walked up it in silence. As they climbed down a flight of stairs leading them closer and closer to their destination, Hermione was becoming increasingly nervous. They were very deep underground, in what looked like dungeons – the walls were made of rough stone, and there were torches along them. At last, Harry stopped in front of an ominous-looking door with a heavy handle. "It's here," he said quietly. "Ready?"

Hermione nodded, urging him to open the door. With a last glance at her, Harry did.

The courtroom was, as she had expected, full of people. About half a dozen figures sat on the benches on either side of the room, the ones on the right seeming anxious, while those on the left looked rather vindictive – it was clear they were witnesses who had given testimonies in favour and against Malfoy, respectively. At the front of the room, where the shadows were more pronounced, there were rows of higher benches. It was where the members of the Wizengamot sat, as well as the representatives of the Council of Magical Law.

Harry and Hermione made their way towards the right side of the room, and they took their seats. A notable change from the past was that the courtroom was no longer swarmed with the Dementors; it was Kingsley Shacklebolt's handiwork, Hermione knew. After the war, thanks to Kingsley's determination to better the Wizarding Britain, several modifications had been introduced to the Ministry, one of which was banning the Dementors from guarding Azkaban and its inmates. The dark-skinned wizard had been elected a temporary Minister for Magic not long after Voldemort's demise, and by the look of things, soon his position was going to become permanent.

Hermione noticed Harry looking around the courtroom with similar curiosity, but before she could open her mouth to say something, she heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the room opened, and three figures walked in. There was no mistaking the white-blond hair belonging to the tall young man in the middle.

Draco Malfoy, Hermione was surprised to see, didn't look unkempt or dirty like she had expected. He was wearing a set of impeccable, clearly expensive robes, the fabric of which seemed to be the blackest of black, and while some strands of his hair were sticking up as if he'd run his hands through it, she could tell he had slicked it back before the hearing. He was still quite thin, his skin had a grey tinge to it, and there were shadows under his eyes, but all things considered, he looked better than during Voldemort's reign. That, and the fact that he had access to his own clothing and toiletries, indicated he hadn't been kept in Azkaban prior to the trial.

Nevertheless, he wasn't giving the impression of being too pleased. Malfoy was scowling at the dreary guards at his sides who were holding each of his arms in what came across as an unnecessarily strong grip. They led him to the centre of the room where a single, menacing-looking chair stood in plain sight, and once there, they practically threw him onto it. Instantly, chains sprung up ostensibly from nowhere, startling the disgruntled teen as they sneaked up his black-clad forearms and bound them tightly to the armrests, rendering him harmless. Malfoy shot the guards a glare like they were bugs he desperately wanted to squash, but was too disgusted to touch.

"Draco Malfoy," a familiar, deep and soothing voice called from the front of the courtroom, prompting Malfoy to look up. It was only then that Hermione realised Kingsley was already present, sitting right in the centre of the highest bench. "You are here to answer charges pertaining to participating in the Death Eater' activities. The evidence for and against you has already been gathered, and we only need your own testimony to pass judgement. What do you have to say in your defence?"

Clearly, the information that there were witnesses testifying in his favour was new to Malfoy. He frowned slightly, turning his head to regard the people sitting on the right side of the room (those on the left side, he didn't spare a glance.) Hermione, who for a while now had been aware of Narcissa Malfoy sitting several metres away from her, only now noticed Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott seated even further down the bench. Malfoy saw them, too (he appeared a bit taken aback) but then, he spotted Harry and Hermione. His jaw fell open.

While they'd received many curious glances since entering the room, it was nothing compared to Malfoy's unveiled disbelief. His brow still slightly furrowed, he gaped incredulously, flicking his eyes from one part of the Golden Trio to the other, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. When he finally shook off his surprise after several seconds, he closed his mouth, blinked a few times, and then turned back to the Minister, his expression now rather wary. Hermione had to bite back a smirk.

"Well, sir," Malfoy began, after clearing his throat. "I have only one thing to say." When he spoke again, his voice was deeper with, presumably, sombreness. "It's that there is not a day I don't regret my bad decisions and misdeeds."

Hermione frowned now – his words sounded a little too practised. Meanwhile, Malfoy lowered his blond head. "The guilt I feel is agonising," he confessed in a voice that was a little too loud. "Every morning, I'm flooded by remorse for my formidable actions, and nothing could possibly express my penitence for those I have wronged," he said. "I have made many mistakes since joining the Dark– _You-Know-Who's_supporters... And now, these mistakes are just tearing me apart."

Malfoy paused here, evidently aiming for a dramatic effect. To Hermione's amazement, when he looked up at Kingsley again, his face was the picture of childlike gullibility. "I regret what I've done, sir," he repeated. "I realise forgiveness is probably too much to wish for, which pains me greatly... but I can only hope that one day I'll be able to atone for my sins. I want very badly to make amends, sir," he declared. "I'd like nothing more than to do that as a free man – not in Azkaban." And he hung his head, as though resigned to whatever fate that would befall him.

Tight-lipped, Hermione had listened to this with no small amount of incredulity, disgust, and a fraction of dismayed amusement. _What_ was this idiot doing? His words sounded awfully unctuous and insincere, and his wide-eyed look only made him come across as greedy for freedom. Hermione could see right through his tormented facade, and she was sure Kingsley could, too.

Suddenly, she wasn't very certain if testifying in Malfoy's favour was the right thing to do. Admittedly, she may not have expected him to immediately renounce all his erroneous beliefs concerning pure-blood supremacy, and hoping for the foolish boy's total redemption was spreading it on thick, but she'd really thought she had caught a glimpse of genuine regret in Malfoy during the war. Surely, the fact that he, even mindful of consequences, had been unable to kill Dumbledore implied there was some inward goodness in him. With the farce Malfoy was making now, though, she had to wonder again just what she was doing, sitting on this bench.

Malfoy was a coward, a racist pig, and a cruel bully, but she'd never considered him incorrigibly evil. As a Marked Death Eater, however, it was very unlikely he'd been allowed to just sit at the Dark Lord's table and do nothing; although Hermione couldn't have possibly known any details, she had a vague idea on what basis Voldemort had operated. Malfoy had been forced to torture people. He had probably, at some point, contributed to someone's death. While she was quite convinced of all this, she also had no doubt that, at least on some level, he felt real remorse for some of the things he had done.

Either way, he was going completely wrong about earning the Wizengamot's sympathy. Clearly, he had no experience nor a slightest clue on how to appeal to people for forgiveness.

Luckily for Malfoy, Kingsley decided to give him another chance (though not before offering him a very sceptical look.) "We shall see about that," the Minister said unconvincingly, but eyed Malfoy with some speculation. "Mr Malfoy, we have been provided with some evidence that you were reluctant to partake in the Death Eaters' activities. What do you say to that?"

Malfoy just stared up at Kingsley for a while, and then cleared his throat once more. He was giving the impression of being rather uncomfortable with this subject. "Yes," he muttered. "I... Yes." And he grew silent. Evidently, this was not a part of the little speech he'd learned by heart – he was speaking more quietly now, and his eyes were down. "But He didn't take no for an answer. Of course I had to do what he told me to."

Malfoy paused again, alternating between glancing at his lap, at Kingsley, and to the sides, and he looked suddenly edgy – not at all like during his earlier grovelling. He took a deep breath, but his next words were somewhat hurried, as if he expected Voldemort to suddenly emerge out of thin air. "You must understand it's a lifelong commitment – being a Death Eater, that is," he said. "There's no way out once you become one. If you're suspected of treachery or defection, the punishment is death. I... I knew this. I had no choice but to..." Here, Malfoy sighed explosively, as if irritated with his inability to express himself. His foot was tapping a tattoo in the stone floor.

"I didn't _enjoy_ it," he drawled, glancing at the ceiling. At the statement, three witches on the lowest bench broke into whispers, but Malfoy merely shot them an irritated glance before continuing. "I didn't. I thought it would be different, I thought... But then I was already one of them. I had the Mark burned into my arm, and I couldn't just get up and leave. The Dark Lord is– _was_ rather, ah, severe, to those who opposed him, even to his followers. There was always punishment." He swallowed visibly at that, and shivered. Hermione noticed that in spite of the war being over, he still appeared to fear Voldemort – it was in the way he chose his words so carefully, and in the obvious avoidance of voicing the Dark Lord's name. He licked his lips nervously, shook his head, and exhaled nasally. "I was sixteen when I joined. Well, it wasn't like I'd have a choice, anyway, was it? But... it didn't take me long to – to regret it."

And this time, it actually sounded sincere. Malfoy seemed to have forgotten his earlier pretence entirely, and while his voice was deep now, too, it was void of that obnoxious falsity. An emotion similar to pride rose in Hermione's chest when he finished speaking, and for some reason, her eyes were becoming damp. Beside her, Harry looked sombre and somewhat thoughtful, and from the corner of her vision, she could see Mrs Malfoy crying soundlessly into a handkerchief.

"Very well," Kingsley said at last. "Your testimony will be taken into account, Mr Malfoy. The Council will now proceed with passing verdict." Stiffening, Malfoy appeared to hold in his breath, just like Hermione did – she felt oddly moved by this whole event. "Those in favour of an Azkaban sentence will please raise their hands..."

About fifty or sixty members of the jury raised their hands, however in the a sea of two hundreds witches and wizards they were quite a minority. Hermione watched as Malfoy, bound as he was, visibly sagged in his chair in relief, and she couldn't restrain a smile. Beaming, she turned to Harry to see him already regarding her with half-curiosity, half-amusement, and she shrugged unconcernedly. All around them, whispers were erupting – after all, it wasn't often that a confirmed Death Eater managed to elude Azkaban after a trial. Come next morning, the news was sure to make the papers.

This hearing wasn't over yet, however. "Those in favour of another punishment," Kingsley's deep voice rose easily above the noise, and quickly the courtroom became quiet again, "will please raise their hands."

Nearly the entire jury, on both sides of the room and at the front, raised their hands this time. Malfoy's previously relaxed countenance returned to wariness; it seemed that while he wouldn't be spending his nearest future in prison, he definitely wasn't going to get off scot-free, either.

Kingsley appeared to be assessing the situation, deliberating on an appropriate penalty for someone guilty of unspeakable acts, but undeserving of Azkaban. A frizzy-haired witch sitting next to him leaned in closer to say something quietly, and Kingsley nodded to her when she finished speaking. Then, he addressed the room once more. "Those in favour of a monetary fine," already the jury were nodding in approval, "of at least 50,000 Galleons, and furthermore, those in favour of a 50,000 Galleons charity donation to war victims, will please raise their hands now..."

If possible, even more hands were raised than before. Malfoy paled considerably, but the Minister didn't seem content with ending the trial just yet. This time, he spoke directly to the accused. "Mr Malfoy, this Council has it on good authority that you were unable to freely attend school due to being involved in the Death Eaters' activities..."

Although it went without saying that the subjects taught by the Carrows couldn't have counted as legitimate classes, the other professors had taught theirs quite efficiently (considering Hogwarts had been run by the Death Eaters.)

"Yes," Malfoy said with unease. "I was often, ah, held up. I didn't attend classes often."

Kingsley looked around at the jury. "According to the current Headmistress of Hogwarts, the renovations are expected to be complete by September this year, and the school should be ready to open without any delay," he said. "The Headmistress has also come to a conclusion that any seventh year student who wishes to attain their N.E.W.T.s should have a chance to repeat the year." Again, he spoke to Malfoy, "Mr Malfoy, let me be honest with you – I do not believe, and I think the jury will agree, that you are a redeemed person. However, we don't consider you irredeemable. The Council has put great faith in you today by not sentencing you to Azkaban, and let it be clear that this decision was based hugely on your age. You are young – the youth are easily impressionable. It was your downfall in the past, but now it can just as readily prove to be a blessing.

"With that being said," Kingsley was back to addressing the room at large, "I ask those in the jury, who agree with me that a compulsory school attendance until completing education is an adequate penalty for the accused, to please raise their hands."

For some reason, Malfoy gave the impression of being almost panicky as he looked around himself. Many hands were raised, and they seemed to be in the majority, though not by much. A lot of wizards and witches were visibly very disapproving of this idea – they were shaking their heads and eyeing Malfoy with severe distrust. No doubt some of them had children who also went to Hogwarts, and weren't very keen on bringing their offspring into the presence of a Death Eater. Either way, they were outvoted. Malfoy was going back. He was paler than ever, which Hermione couldn't quite understand – was he that afraid to face his peers again, or was there something more?

"And lastly," the Minister said, quietening down the noise. "As we have heard, the accused expressed an ardent desire to atone for his misdeeds." Hermione knew where this was going, and she couldn't help but smirk into her lap; of course Kingsley wasn't going to let Malfoy's impudence go overlooked. "Therefore, I urge to raise their hands those in the jury who believe, as I do, that Mr Malfoy's wish should be gratified. I believe community service is a pertinent solution. Initially, I suggest 250 hours of supervised social work."

Hermione was sure that this time each and every member of the jury raised their hand. They were also all wearing similar expressions of satisfaction and derision, and she really couldn't blame them – Malfoy had had it coming all along for the farce he'd made at the beginning of the trial. It'd been downright insulting towards the jury, and judging by the unhappy look on his face, Malfoy realised that, too. Hermione watched without any sympathy as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his jaw tightly set. She could only imagine his annoyance with himself.

"Very well," Kingsley said with a quirk in his mouth. "The details of your penalty will be sent to you via the owl, Mr Malfoy." He stood up from the bench. "I consider this trial over."

The Council and the Wizengamot members were all getting up from their seats, so Hermione and Harry did, as well.

"Well," Harry said to her, "I suppose he got off fairly lightly, considering." He gave a smirk of his own.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Especially when you remember he could've landed in Azkaban." She shivered. "Shall we, er, go confront him now or something, do you think?"

"Oh, I don't know..." Harry was clearly dubious as he looked at Malfoy; the chains binding the blond to the chair had released on their own, and he was now standing beside Mrs Malfoy, massaging his wrists. "I mean, sure, the bloke may not be Azkaban material, but I'm not too keen on buddying up with him."

Hermione nodded, relieved. "Yes, I feel the same way. Let's get out of here, then. Do you want to stop by The Burrow? Ron must be dying from curiosity, even if he won't admit it!"

"Sure, The Burrow sounds good," said Harry. "I was going to drop by anyway... Oh, Ron's going to be so disappointed when we tell him Malfoy's going back to Hogwarts." He snickered. They were moving towards the door, though it was rather crammed and there was a crowd of people before them.

"He'll be furious, more like," Hermione said, laughing. "Especially now that we've finally convinced him to repeat the year with us. Then again, this might just change his mind – better if we don't tell him."

Harry grinned. "And hide all the papers from him tomorrow?"

"Drat, you're right," she sighed in mock exasperation. "Oh well, we can't exactly blame him, though, can we? Malfoy's a right jerk when he wants to be..." She pondered this for a second. "Actually, no, scratch that. When you think about it, Malfoy's always a –"

"Granger!"

Hermione stopped in her tracks, nearly tripping. Beside her, Harry grabbed her arm to steady her, and they both turned around towards the source of the voice – it was a very familiar, cold voice.

"Malfoy," Hermione uttered, as she caught her breath – he'd almost given her a heart attack!

Sure enough, Malfoy was striding towards them with a vexed look on his face and Pansy Parkinson on his arm. They were several metres away, definitely not close enough to have been able to hear Hermione's words in the bustle of the crowd, but it'd certainly felt that way. The timing in which Malfoy's voice had cut through hers seemed just a little too convenient.

Once he and Pansy reached them, a silence fell. "Potter," Malfoy finally drawled.

"Malfoy," responded Harry.

Malfoy cleared his throat; from up close, standing straight in regal black robes, he looked even taller than before, especially without Crabbe and Goyle's lumbering forms behind him. "Look – I don't know what your reason for doing this was. But... Yeah. Thanks." He scowled, and Hermione wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing – he just didn't appear grateful at all. Pansy looked like she wanted to flee, even while she clutched her boyfriend's arm in a vice-like grip.

"Yeah, alright," Harry said after a beat.

Still scowling, Malfoy turned to leave, but not before he sighed rudely. He froze. Hermione watched, bewildered, as his nostrils flared, seeming to sniff at the air, and his eyebrows drew together, evidently in confusion. He turned back around and fixed his grey stare directly on her. "Have you..." He took another great sniff, ignoring Pansy tugging at his arm. Hermione narrowed her eyes; if he was going to make a Mudblood comment...

But Malfoy didn't comment at all. In fact, he seemed to come out of a trance. His face coloured slightly. "Forget it," he snarled at her, and turning around for the third time, finally stalked off, dragging a stuttering Pansy behind him.

Gawking after him, Hermione asked Harry, "What was that about, do you suppose?"

Harry looked equally baffled. "I haven't got a clue." They stood there for a moment. "Well, shall we go?"

"Yes. Yes, let's go," said Hermione. She shook her head to clear it before looping her arm through Harry's. Together, they walked out of the now empty courtroom.

.

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* * *

Hostile as ever :D

Thanks to everyone who faved/followed and to my lovely reviewers! :)


	5. The Hogwarts Express

**Tuesday; 1 September 1998, 11:00 a.m.**

As the telltale shrill whistle resounded throughout Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the Hogwarts Express departed from the station with lurching motions. Surprisingly, the train was buzzing with excited chatters and loud greetings. It was as though the war had never happened, Hermione mused somewhat pensively, watching the enthusiastic students milling about her, finding their friends and talking loudly about the summer holidays.

"They're all a bloody noisy lot, aren't they?" Ron remarked next to her. They both had to step aside so as to let a group of laughing Hufflepuff boys pass in the narrow corridor.

"There's no need to swear, Ron," Hermione scolded half-heartedly.

Ron's eyes were still on the retreating, boisterous boys. "Well, they are. It's weird. It's kind of as if nothing changed – just another year of school. "

"They're just happy to see their friends," said Hermione, even as her thoughts fully mirrored Ron's. It wasn't that she begrudged her schoolmates their joy of living in a secure setting$ again. In fact, she wasn't even sure why the giddy atmosphere of the train rankled her at all. Perhaps she simply wasn't prepared for it, having expected everyone to be relieved, though more serious and morose, with the war still fresh in the memory of British wizards and witches. She'd expected quiet. Hermione's own mood was that of melancholy.

There was nothing for it, though; Hermione shrugged, and giving Ron a small smile, grabbed his hand. "Come on – the other prefects are probably waiting for us."

It was a great improvement, in her opinion, that neither of them was stammering wildly as they resumed their pace holding hands, though they were both blushing. While they had certainly had many occasions during the summer to become closer, they'd only just started being comfortable enough to touch each other freely between July and August. Hermione found out first-hand that stepping up from being friends to being _something more_ wasn't that easy a process. It required steely patience and inordinate heaps of courage – and even though both Ron and Hermione were virtually the very images of Gryffindor bravery, in their relationship they were nervous. They needed time to adjust. Hermione had been shy and unsure of how to interact with Ron after their first kiss during the Final Battle, and she could tell that he had been equally uncertain.

As they weaved their way through students clustered in the corridors of the train, hands still linked, Hermione was amazed (and mortified) at how popular she and Ron seemed to suddenly become. Before the war, besides the fact that they'd been perceived as Harry Potter's best friends, they were just two ordinary students. Now, it appeared that they became some sort of heroes to the rest of the school – every step of their way to the prefect carriage, there was not a moment's silence, and whenever they were spotted, the noise increased. Everybody wanted to touch them and to speak to them. Upon noticing their linked hands, Hermione kept receiving excited squeals from the girls, and Ron was given thumbs-ups and pats on the back from the boys.

"Excuse – _Excuse_-me, can you let us through? We're in a hurry," Hermione tried to speak over the commotion when Ron just accepted the congratulations and praise like it was his due.

"C'mon, make room for them, idiots!" somebody laughed good-naturedly. "Let them have their alone-time!"

The crowd crowed; hardly anyone moved. Students were actually coming out of their compartments to join their excited peers.

"Is it true you two are engaged now?" some girl squealed.

"Moron!" someone else shouted. "Ron didn't even start courting her yet, have you, Ron?"

Ron, his face the colour of his hair, ducked his head with a grin. Another round of cheering and cooing ensued after that, and Hermione's mortification was gradually turning into impatience. They didn't have time for all this – the prefect meeting was due to begin any second now, and she didn't want to be late.

"Ron, let's go," she urged, squeezing his hand that was now sweating. It seemed that Ron finally realised Hermione wasn't enjoying herself as much as he was, as he shouted to the crowd, "Okay, okay, that's enough, people!" He was still grinning. "Let us through, would you? Prefect duties call – or something like that..."

Realising that the two focal points of the commotion wouldn't stick around for long, the throng of mirthful students slowly began thinning. Hermione and Ron, still getting an occasional pat on the back, somehow managed to reach the prefects' carriage without more difficulties, and only then did they let go of each other's hand.

Ron made a grand gesture as he slid the door open for her. "Ladies first."

Hermione couldn't hold back the giggle that escaped her. She curtsied demurely to Ron and then entered the compartment.

"And here come the heroes!" a dramatic shout greeted them at once, and instantly applause coupled with joyful cheering ensued from the students inside the carriage. Hermione balked. Red-cheeked with renewed embarrassment, she grabbed Ron (who had evidently been intent on basking in the attention again) by the arm, and quickly dragged him to the nearest seats.

"Oh come on, Hermione, live a little." Ron said happily once they were sitting. "You heard them – we're _heroes_ now! What's the harm in enjoying it?"

Hermione moaned inwardly. "Ron, this is embarrassing – and you're just egging them on!"

Ron shrugged sheepishly, but he didn't seem too repentant.

At last, when the last bouts of clapping died down, ending Hermione's discomfiture, Ernie Macmillan stood up, looking every bit his pompous self. "Alright, alright. Welcome back, Ron, Hermione, it's good to see you two again." He bowed graciously in their direction. Ron puffed up his chest in response while Hermione smiled rather awkwardly. "It is very good, indeed. Such a shame our friend Harry can't be here with us at the moment, but I suppose one sometimes needs a break from being a hero." He paused to nod in Hermione and Ron's general direction. "Now, it's time us prefects stepped in and took some responsibility on our shoulders. But I suggest we start small. It seems that everyone is present now, so why don't we move on and begin our meeting?"

A few people nodded readily. However, when Ernie opened his mouth again, a snide, feminine voice called from the corner of the compartment, "Oh give it up, Macmillan. You're not even Head Boy, are you?"

Hermione looked at the girl who had said this. It was, according to the badge on her robes, a sixth year Slytherin, but Hermione didn't recognise her. She was of small built, with a diamond shaped face and brown hair that fell over her shoulders. Upon closer inspection, though, Hermione could see a distinct resemblance between the girl and Daphne Greengrass, her classmate. While Hermione held no love for Daphne, she was aware the snobbish, frivolous girl in her year had a younger sister named Astoria – and judging from the attitude and the similarity in appearance, it could only mean this was her.

"Well – I, er – no, I'm not Head Boy, actually," Ernie spluttered, flushing. "But I was just saying – we need to begin somewhere, right?"

"Whatever," Blaise Zabini, another Slytherin, drawled dismissively. "So who here is Head Boy if it's not Macmillan?"

A straw-haired boy who sat next to Ernie, squirming in his seat all the while, raised his hand. "I am. My name's Timothy Clearwater. Er, nice to meet you." He did a small wave, and indeed, a golden Head Boy badge flashed up from his robes.

"Oh, of course – a Hufflepuff," Zabini said with distaste as he eyed Timothy's embroidered black and yellow Hogwarts emblem.

For a second, there was a charged silence. Although altercations between Slytherin and the other houses were certainly not a rare occurrence, after the war, one would think the antagonism would abate. And perhaps in some cases it did – but evidently not every Slytherin was ready to end the hostility (just as not every Gryffindor was willing to let them.)

When it became clear Timothy wasn't going to say anything in his defence, Hermione was about to intervene – however, somebody else beat her to it. "There's nothing wrong with a Hufflepuff being Head Boy." The voice belonged to a lanky, severe-looking girl sitting beside Padma Patil. "You don't have to scoff at others just because you're jealous, Zabini."

Zabini wrinkled his nose as though something foul had just appeared in front of him.

"And who are _you_?" yet another Slytherin, a fifth year boy this time, asked before Zabini could make a retort.

"I'm Nanette Desford," the girl said, tossing back strings of dark hair. "And I'm Head Girl. So you'd better learn to show some respect to Timothy and me, or I'll deduct points. There'll be no hogwash from you Slytherins this year if I have anything to say about it."

Hermione was somewhat impressed. The girl, a Ravenclaw as her emblem suggested, not only came across as diligent, down to earth, and definitely capable of holding her own, but also protective of those being picked on. She could see clearly Professor McGonagall's reasons behind her choice of a Head Girl.

"How charming," Astoria Greengrass said, a sneer twisting her pretty face. "Already prejudiced against us Slytherins, are you?"

"I'm not prejudiced," said Nanette. "I'm just acting on mere observation. Based on what I've seen from your House today on the train, you needed the warning. Here you are all Prefects! And still, you display this completely unfounded superior attitude. Hufflepuff is as good a House as any other; if anything, it is you, the Slytherins, who need to let go of the prejudice."

At least three Slytherins were visibly ready to argue the point, but this time Timothy Clearwater hastily cut in."Right, er," he said. "Can we get back to the matter at hand, though, please? We've got to get this meeting, uh, over with before we reach Hogwarts, so..."

"Yes, let's," Zabini said, already looking bored. "I think it's agreed that we've all got things we'd rather be doing right now."

Hermione disagreed with him – she took her prefect duties quite seriously, thank you very much. Granted, she would have much preferred it if it was her who was made Head Girl, but she'd (grudgingly) come to accept Professor McGonagall's decision that students coming back to repeat their seventh year couldn't be granted the honour. She understood how it would be unfair towards the current seventh years, though the bitterness remained. In a way, Hermione reasoned, she'd already missed her chance at acquiring the badge – after all, her last year had been spent entirely on hunting Voldemort's Horcruxes.

"Of course, Timothy," Nanette said, sparing Zabini a disapproving glance. "We'll start with telling those of you who are new of the prefect duties and privileges. What do you say, Timothy? The old prefects can treat it as a reminder from the previous years."

Timothy nodded eagerly, evidently pleased at having some input. "Sounds fair to me. Why don't you begin?"

And so the first meeting began.

.

* * *

.

Several compartments down the train, slumped in his seat, Draco was brooding. It was a large misunderstanding, in his opinion, that he was forced to be sitting here right now. After all, hadn't he suffered enough already? If Shacklebolt, the bothersome dick of a new Minister, knew Draco's overall punishment was hardly limited to what the Wizengamot had ordered, Draco bet he wouldn't be sent back to Hogwarts. No matter the more naive fools' preaching, nobody really wanted a werewolf in the vicinity of children. He would be viewed as dangerous to society. Already, at least half the Wizengamot members considered Draco to be a bad influence on the other students, and nearly one-third were averse to having him return to Hogwarts at all. He was universally despised as it was. If only they knew...

The last thing Draco wanted, though, was for people to find out what he was. Hiding a dark secret from the whole school was going to be difficult, but Draco could deal with it – he was never a sincere person to begin with. But he couldn't allow his condition to be given away. With all this in mind (as well as with the reminder that failing to meet any of the stipulations set by the Ministry would get him shipped off to Azkaban) Draco had boarded the Hogwarts Express today.

Already, he was feeling the repercussions of this action.

Everything around him was just too_ much_ – too loud, too harsh, and too intense. His senses were overloaded. This was also causing him a crushing headache, which wasn't even so unusual anymore, but it did serve to make his aggravation with the world surge. Silently, Draco vowed to himself that if another hysterical first year yelled something across the corridor, he would get out there and bash their skull in, his three-year-long probation be damned.

Just then, without warning, the train made a particularly hard lurch; Draco gritted his teeth. On top of everything, he was feeling queasy, which was new. He felt like a caged dog with a bad case of motion sickness. He could only pray he could stave off his nausea long enough for the train to reach its destination.

The ceaseless chatter of his classmates was currently leading him to wonder if somewhere on the train an empty compartment would be available. Maybe if he chased away its occupants...

"What do you think, Draco?" Pansy Parkinson asked out of the blue as she latched at his arm. Suddenly confronted with a great whiff of her overwhelming perfume, Draco almost gagged. It took a lot of his self-control to not recoil, though he did face the other way.

"No idea, Pansy. Don't bother me."

Pansy's lips thinned, her gaze drilling holes in his profile. "You don't even know what I've just asked, do you? No, of course you don't," she answered herself when it became obvious he wouldn't, too absorbed in staring at the window glass. "For your information," she said, now glaring, "Theo and I were talking about _your_ miserable state. You've been in a mood since we boarded this ruddy train –"

"I'm not in any mood –"

"_So I was wondering_ if we could go do something fun after the feast today!" she hissed. "Spend some time together! Because I've missed you!" Pansy was near crying now, and heads were turning in their direction. This was nothing new in the Slytherin territory, however, as they were all used to Pansy's dramatic outbursts. Draco closed his eyes in frustration, silently willing the silly bint to stop her grouching. "The teachers and prefects will be tired after we arrive, so we wouldn't be bothered. I wanted to tell you about my summer, in detail! But you don't care. You never care!"

At this point, Draco tried to get some word in, if only to ease his headache; her shrill voice was making it worse. "Pansy, will you shut up for –"

"No, I will not! You don't even want to hear me out – I don't know why I even bother! You're only ever interested in one thing!"

"I don't remember you complai –"

"_See?_" her timbre was almost impossibly high. Draco covered his ear, cringing. "You're such a bloody prick sometimes! You don't care about me at all!" She gasped suddenly, as if coming to a startling realisation. "Or is there someone else? Have you met some dirty tart during the summer, is that it?"

Draco would have laughed if he wasn't so exasperated. "Are you mad? I was a Death Eater – people go out of their fucking way to avoid me! Who would I have met, a fucking Muggle?"

"How should I know? I don't know what's going through your head anymore!"

"Good Lord, tone it down, Parkinson!" Theodore Nott, a stringy-looking boy in their year, said irritably. "Better yet, why don't you two take it somewhere else? Nobody wants to listen to your –"

"You stay out of it, Nott," Pansy snapped at him before promptly turning back to Draco. "And you're not denying that you'd like to meet someone. Why don't you just say it outright –"

Dragging both hands through his hair, Draco exhaled loudly. "For God's sake, just shut up, you stupid cow."

This was apparently too much for Pansy. Outraged, she made a move as if to slap him, but Draco grabbed her wrist. "Let me go – Don't you call me a –"

But he caught a hold of her jaw and kissed her before she could finish her sentence. Pansy accepted the kiss as though the argument had never taken place. She hummed into his mouth and eagerly wound her free arm around his neck, nearly crawling onto his lap as he moved his hand from her jaw to grasp the hair at the back of her head. Although they were still being stared at, Draco managed to shove that notion aside. In truth, except the times when he was younger and wanted to show off, he rarely snogged Pansy in front of other people. Why would he? Pansy was a rather passionate girl when it came to these things, and Draco didn't much fancy finding himself in a... predicament in his classmates' presence.

When they did snog in public, though, Pansy was often disposed to forget everything else, even if they had been fighting moments before. Unlike him, she loved public displays of affection. In fact, Draco was almost convinced that, contrary to the prudery her pure-blood lineage suggested, Pansy was a closet exhibitionist.

Someone in the compartment catcalled, and Pansy keened into the kiss.

Then, the strangest thing happened: Pansy's tongue that was in his mouth caught on his canine. She let out a muffled squeak as she jerked her head away, holding a hand to her lips, but Draco barely noticed. Tasting the blood in his mouth, he tightened his hold on her and stared.

Pansy giggled. "You look like you want to eat me."

And the terrifying thing was that she was right.

They were both breathing heavily, but Draco suddenly found his pulse quickening for entirely different reasons. The next full moon was only a week away, and with its approach, Draco's senses and urges were more and more resembling those of a wolf. As it was, right now, the remnants of Pansy's blood in his mouth were causing his craving for more to stir.

This was mad, he knew – Pansy was a human being, and what was more, she was his friend. He knew he shouldn't be feeling what the animalistic half of his brain implied. Even so, now that he got a taste of her sweet tongue, until after the full moon, Draco wouldn't trust himself not to bite it off the next time he had it in his mouth.

"Oh hurray, you're done, thank Salazar," somebody said from the side, making them both jump. It was Theodore Nott. While the moment Nott had left the compartment went unobserved by Draco, the fact that he was wearing an overly relieved expression as he plopped back down on the opposite seat, didn't.

Draco flipped him off as he pushed Pansy off his lap. Then, he set about managing the excess of saliva in his mouth.

"Yeah, Nott, we are now, thanks to you," Pansy snapped. "God bless your great timing, really."

Unconcerned, Nott grabbed a book lying beside him and browsed through it. "Well, what can I say to that? You've got to admit I'm overall quite brilliant."

Pansy sneered. "I think you meant 'bitter' – because you're not getting any." She pretended to consider this. "Who knows, maybe if you actually put away those stupid books of yours, you might finally get laid."

To Draco's surprise, Nott's face reddened; it was a fairly odd look on any Slytherin. "I've just got more important things on my mind than girls," he replied tersely.

Draco found it in himself to smirk. "Sure," he said. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. And what lonely nights they must be."

"What are you saying, Draco?" Pansy gasped with feigned astonishment. "I'm sure Theo's getting plenty of comfort from Miranda Goshawk... and her_ Standard Book of Spells_. I mean, it's just full of charms!" she giggled uncontrollably, failing to notice Nott's deepening glower. Draco, however, didn't. And he relished in it. Finally, he felt completely in his element – humiliating others had always been one of his favourite pastimes, and it didn't matter if the victim was his friend or not.

"Don't laugh, Pansy," he drawled, smirking still. "We all know that's the most action Nott's really going to get with a witch."

They were both enjoying the other boy's irked expression immensely. But Nott was a Slytherin as well, and he had his pride, too; he wasn't going to just take the ridicule lying down. "Really, Malfoy," he said over Pansy's giggles, eyes narrowed with vengefulness. "I actually think I sleep much better than you do – well, at least once every month, if you understand me."

All semblance of Draco's bettered mood evaporated in an eye's blink. Feeling as though the time had stopped, he fixed Nott with a frozen stare. _Did_ he understand it right? His heart was beating a quick tattoo in his chest, as he tried to calm down and think it over. Was it possible that Nott knew about his condition? Draco was almost certain the answer was no – after all, there was nothing that could give him away. He hadn't been acting odd or suspicious, or at least he didn't think he had. Nott couldn't have figured it out. And even if he somehow had, there was no way he would be peacefully sharing a compartment with Draco instead of broadcasting the news to the entire train. After all, nobody wanted to socialise with a werewolf.

But when Nott refused to meet his eyes after that unsettling admission, Draco began to have doubts. Regardless of what his senses told him, his instincts disagreed. For one, there was the fact that Nott not only appeared like he knew exactly what he'd just said, but also as though he hadn't intended to say it at all. It was a guilty look, Draco realised with a sinking heart. Nott knew. There really weren't many ways in which his meaning could be interpreted if one had an idea what to look for. The small bout of nausea Draco felt this time had nothing to do with motion sickness.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pansy was obviously confused. "Draco? Draco. Hey!" she prodded his arm with her finger, and finally he jerked his gaze away.

"Who knows?" he drawled, feigning nonchalance. Then, with one last glance at Nott, he stood up. "I'm going to take a walk. Don't follow me," he added when Pansy started to get up, as well.

"But –"

Draco was out of the compartment before she could finish her thought. He needed to get away. If Nott really was aware of his condition, there had to be a reason he hadn't exposed it to the public yet; Draco intended to discover that reason. Needless to say, though, he resolved that he wouldn't provoke Theodore Nott again any time soon.

.

* * *

.

"How was the prefects' meeting?" Ginny wanted to know as soon as Hermione and Ron entered the compartment.

Ron groaned as if pained. "Bloody terrible," he said, flopping down next to Harry. Hermione sat across from him, beside Neville. "I _hate_ the Slytherins. Slimy gits, all of them."

"It was certainly... interesting," Hermione offered, looking weary. "Lots of disagreements and spats over nothing. You can probably tell, though – the meeting didn't last this long without a reason."

"What about the Slytherins?" Harry asked.

Ron simply groaned again, so Hermione took it upon herself to answer. "Oh, you know – they were... well, they were being Slytherins, honestly." She sighed. "Mostly they just kept questioning the Heads and making rude remarks – Timothy, the Head Boy, is a Hufflepuff, so you can imagine they felt all superior. Oh, but at least nobody insulted anyone because of their blood, so I don't think it went truly bad, all things considered."

"I should ruddy well think they didn't," Ginny growled, snuggling closer to Harry and putting his arm around herself. "After all that's happened, the only thing we need is Slytherins' endless drivel."

Harry's hand was playing with a strand of Ginny's red hair as he said, "Nah, I don't think they're going to keep it up this year." He shrugged. "Self-preservation and all that, remember? It wouldn't be very, er, prudent to still spout prejudice in their situation."

Neville was nodding. "Right." His mouth twisted into a grimace. "They have to appear properly apologetic, don't they? Not doing a very good job of it anyway, if you ask me..."

This, coming from the previously very shy, withdrawn boy, caused Hermione to frown. It was clear Neville gained more confidence after assuming the role of a Dumbledore's Army's leader during the war, but he seemed to be rather bitter now, as well. "When have you become so sceptical, Neville?" she asked in a tone that was noticeably disapproving. "You shouldn't judge people by their House – yes, I know it's exactly what the Slytherins are doing, but why would you want to lower yourself to their level that way? Some of them could be genuinely contrite. I think they at least deserve another chance."

"I knew you'd say something like that, Hermione," Neville replied. His expression showed a mixture of sheepishness and vague condescension, which sparked a feeling of indignation in Hermione, until he elaborated. "But you weren't here, at Hogwarts, when the Death Eaters ruled the school. Don't get me wrong," he corrected hastily, "I know you three were on a mission elsewhere, and that it definitely wasn't easy on you. But... some things the Slytherins did last year just to get in the Carrows' good books were horrible. It's just a bit hard to forget it happened, even if I know not all the Slytherins were the same."

"Oh," Hermione uttered after a pause. She wished she could just eat her own words; of course Neville had more reasons than her to blame the Slytherins. She'd spoken without thinking, which was a rare occurrence, indeed. Now she felt foolish.

There was a small movement in the corner of the compartment. "Ginny said only a few Slytherins were actually cruel," a serene voice said. It was Luna's; for a moment, Hermione had forgotten the quirky blonde girl was there.

Ginny sagged slightly against Harry, pouting a little. "Okay, yes, that's true," she admitted with some reluctance, as heads swerved in her direction. "Oh, some of them were really bad, like Crabbe and Goyle – they were right at the top of the list. But it was obvious that mostly the Slytherins just did what they were told to do. To tell you the truth, many were actually neutral and stayed away from the Carrows completely."

"Well, with Crabbe and Goyle constantly out for blood, you can imagine not many others were needed," Neville put in. At the Trio's inquisitive looks, he added, "to oversee the students in detentions."

"It's called torture, Neville," Ginny said quietly. "You've got no reason to sugarcoat it."

"Right," Neville replied, and they all fell silent after that. Hermione felt somewhat ashamed of herself; she really had no idea what it was like at Hogwarts the previous year. She'd been curious, of course, but she never asked. Ginny had surely already told Harry about that period, and probably the Weasley family, too, so she probably saw no need to share her grievances with Hermione as well. Hermione now felt a bit left out because of that, which, she knew, was just silly.

Suddenly, Luna jumped up a little and said, "Oh, I've got some pastries with Gulping Plimpy filling." She started digging in her peculiar-looking, deep-blue, furry bag. "Daddy said they're wonderful for serious and quiet moments just like this."

As they all awkwardly nibbled on the bittersweet pastries, trying in unison not to cringe, Hermione thought that, for once, Xenophilius Lovegood had a point.

.

* * *

.

It was already nightfall when the train started to slow down. Far in the distance, the outline of the Hogwarts castle could be seen towering over the Black Lake. The Hogwarts Express made a final lurch before it stopped completely, and the doors opened before the awaiting students. This was when Draco scented it – the delicate fragrance he'd only inhaled once before, but puzzled over for days. Even in the crowd of hundreds exhausted teenagers, the smell was quite distinct, which could only mean one thing – the source of it was close by. Try as might, Draco was unable to keep himself from turning his head in its direction.

Sure enough, Granger stood there, just as he knew she would, along with Potter, Weasley, and Weasley's sister. Even though Draco knew he would see her there, it still somehow came as an unwelcome surprise. What _was_ it about her scent that bothered him so much? He couldn't comprehend it. She wasn't wearing any kind of perfume, he was certain of it, and still he couldn't help but feel grudgingly drawn in – she had a smell that he couldn't seem to ignore.

Although there were two or three students separating them, the train was rather cramped. As a result, there was only about two metres distance between them in total, and now that he was facing Granger, the scent was more perceptible. Without consulting his brain about it, Draco inhaled deeply. It was a fragrance that was hard to describe – delicate but catchy, fresh and feminine. It seemed to be somehow camouflaged underneath the tang of her soap and shampoo, indicating that it was her own natural musk, which made him feel all the more disturbed.

Over the months, Draco managed to get used to his enhanced senses. His body and mind adapted to them with time, so for the most part the sensitiveness didn't trouble him anymore. However, while he was aware every person had their own unique scent, he hadn't been bothered by anyone else's as much as he was by Granger's. Much as he'd tried to chalk it up to a onetime occurrence, the fact that the situation repeated itself told a different story. There was just no getting around it – he was, in some unfathomable, primal way, intrigued by Granger.

The thought both perturbed and disgusted him at once. Her blood was dirty, for Salazar's sake. The war may have been over, but that didn't compel Draco to develop a sudden love for Mudbloods and blood-traitors. He still held them in contempt, just as his parents had taught him to, and he had no intention of making nice with them. Admittedly, his hatred didn't run nearly as deep as it used to prior to the war, for he no longer believed Muggle-borns deserved to be killed or tortured for their inferior blood status, but the truth remained that he scorned them, even as he wasn't a pure-blood wizard himself, anymore.

Granger was, to him, the very representative of all the Mudbloods in the entire Hogwarts. She was the prime example of Muggle-borns' persistence to defiantly remain in the wizards and witches' community. Draco despised her, or at least he had until he found out she'd testified on his trial, along with Potter. To this day, he had no idea what had inspired them to do that for him. However, while the sense of grudging gratitude he felt somewhat diminished Granger's inferiority in his eyes, nothing could obscure the fact that she was a Mudblood.

Granger giggled at something or other Weasley had said, and Draco watched her blatantly, not even trying to pretend otherwise. Seriously, it was the first time he'd seen the bint _giggle_ – usually, she had her nose stuck in a book, looking for all the world as if she didn't have a life outside of it.

Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up on ends – Draco knew, at once, that Granger wasn't the only one under scrutiny, anymore. He felt like he was being observed, as well. He jerked his gaze away, scowling, and his displeasure only increased as he found the Weasel staring at him. Draco didn't hold back the urge to sneer – after all, he didn't owe anything to the beggared blood-traitor. Weasley predictably sneered back, and then put his arm around Granger's shoulder; Draco didn't even want to think of reasons for which Weasley felt it necessary to do that while holding eye-contact with him.

The crowd of students was slowly thinning. Soon, the Trio along with the She-Weasel also walked away, exiting the Hogwarts Express.

"Looked awfully smug, didn't they," Pansy grumbled at his side, gazing after the war heroes. Although Draco said nothing as he, too, got off the train, he agreed with the statement wholeheartedly.

.

.

.

* * *

Well, the Slytherins aren't very popular at the moment... However will they cope? :D


	6. The Bittersweet Feast

**Tuesday; 1 September 1998, 10:05 p.m.**

To Hermione's amazement, the Great Hall seemed to be reconstructed to a tee. There was not a trace of the damage it had taken during the Battle of Hogwarts, and to the naked eye, everything was returned precisely to its former shape. The ceiling was, as it had always been, enchanted to reflect the sky outside, and this combined with the flickering flames of the floating candles, made the atmosphere in the Hall truly magical. Of course, Hermione thought to herself, the word 'magical' absolutely lost its meaning when one used it to describe Hogwarts. All the same, there was no denying that the Great Hall looked as magnificent as ever.

It made her wonder if this was, perhaps, the chamber Professor McGonagall paid the most attention to. She was certain the Headmistress wanted to give the students the warmest welcome she could muster, which Hermione fully supported, but she also suspected there were many demolished parts in the castle that were barely attended to – even with the use of magic, it had to be impossible to fix that much damage in so little time.

The students were obviously thrilled as they gazed around. In fact, despite her realistic approach, Hermione was rather impressed herself. Although they had arrived mere minutes ago and therefore only seen a miniscule fraction of Hogwarts, she could tell the changes made since May were monumental.

"Would you believe a few months ago this place was in ruins?" Neville said, still gaping when they all sat at the Gryffindor table.

"Yeah," Harry said breathlessly. "How did Professor McGonagall pull it off, do you think?"

Ron leaned in on his elbows to be better heard in the surrounding bustle of chattering students. "Probably hired some blokes from the Magical Construction Company," he said. "And I reckon the other teachers did some work, too. I mean, there's no way everything would be this clean if that wasn't the case."

Harry looked thoughtful at this. "I didn't know companies like that exist in the Wizarding World."

"Sure they do." Ron shrugged. "But I figure we do stuff differently from the Muggles. Basically, you've got to know many variations of the Levitation Charm, Engorgement and Shrinking Charms, the Hammering Spell, crushing spells... It's a pretty draining job on the whole, or so I hear." He glanced behind himself then, shifting in his seat impatiently. "Merlin, I wish Hagrid would hurry up with the first years – I'm starving!"

Truth be told, Hermione was quite hungry, as well. On the train, she hardly ate anything due to her musings on how this upcoming year was going to turn out, and those thoughts included her anxiousness concerning the dynamics between Slytherin and the rest of the Houses. Already it was becoming clear that last year was not to be easily forgotten. The Hufflepuffs, with some exceptions, were generally living up to their name, so far displaying similar attitudes of forgiveness, patience, and tolerance towards all the other students, however they were the only House so accepting. Here the leniency ended, as even the Ravenclaws seemed to have decided on a passive-aggressive approach. They were abstaining from directly confronting the Slytherins about their fickle allegiances, but not from casting them nasty looks, whispering caustic comments, and manifestly evading all contact.

The worst, however, were by far the relations between the Slytherins and Gryffindors. There was just no getting around it – the infamous rivalry between the two Houses had changed into open hostility by the end of the war. Now, there was no withholding constant streams of cruel remarks, vile insinuations, derisive rebuttals, and bitter venting. Although both parties were active participants in these confrontations (which already had a tendency to turn violent), it was impossible to overlook the fact that the roles in the conflict had been swapped. To Hermione's knowledge, aside from the harmless altercations in the Prefects' carriage, it was mainly the Gryffindors who had instigated the arguments today, while the Slytherins took on a defensive position.

She had no doubt as to why the Slytherins were so quiet – it was mostly out of self-preservation. Still, she couldn't feel hateful about it.

"Cheap bastards," Ron growled, noticing where Hermione's eyes were straying; she hadn't even realised she'd been gazing at the Slytherin table. "Look at them, acting like nothing ever happened. It's bloody ridiculous, if you ask me – why did they even come back?"

"To take their N.E.W.T.s," Hermione gave the obvious answer. "Professor McGonagall must've sent them the letter."

Professor McGonagall, Hermione knew, was sitting at the centre of the staff table, in a lavish chair reserved for a current Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts. It was a bit dizzying to spot her former Transfiguration teacher in that seat. Hermione had only seen it being occupied by Professor Dumbledore before.

Ron looked exasperated. "But that's exactly what I'm talking about!" He threw up his hands. "Why did she invite them back? It's like asking us to forget they sided with You-Know-Who during the war. They bloody tortured Ginny last year... And Neville – and everyone!"

Although Ginny was currently engaged in a cheerful conversation with Harry, Neville did hear Ron's words. "Hey, mate, easy there," he said soothingly. "It makes me mad, too, but like I said earlier, few Slytherins actually helped the Carrows of their own will. Mainly, they tried to avoid the Death Eaters like the rest of us."

Ron didn't seem appeased by those words. "But they still went along with it, didn't they?" he scowled. "Didn't refuse when they were told to cast _Crucio_. It's an Unforgiveable Curse, for Merlin's sake!"

"It wasn't just the Slytherins, Ron," Neville pointed out patiently. "We were all being taught those classes. Well, the Dumbledore's Army fought, of course, but... The thing is that hardly any students from other Houses were capable of using that curse, and the Carrows got bored with trying to find them. But there were still exceptions – some Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs... even one or two Gryffindors –"

"That's different!" Ron said, evidently irritated that the other boy wasn't agreeing with him. "And besides, you said it yourself – it was mostly those snakes who were able to use the Unforgiveables. What does that say about them? They all should be sent to Azkaban, is what I think!"

Hermione wasn't surprised by this revelation. Without a doubt, Ron would gladly join the other Gryffindors in their attempt to oppress the Slytherins had it not been for Hermione's disapproving presence. Her influence over Ron didn't extend to controlling his feelings and opinions, however, and she couldn't force her beliefs on him. She suspected Ron's increased hatred for the Slytherins had to do with Fred's death – it was never revealed who was responsible for it, and it could also have been an accident, but Hermione imagined Ron needed to put the blame somewhere.

All around them students were still chattering merrily, and even Harry and Ginny (who apparently only had eyes for one another) seemed oblivious to the heavier atmosphere after Ron's exclamation.

"Anyway," Neville said uncertainly. "Got any idea who the new teachers are?"

Grateful for this change of topic, Hermione surveyed the long staff table. Apart from the Headmistress who sat right at the centre, about a dozen other figures were seated at the table. Hermione spotted Professor Slughorn, the walrus-like Potions master who had replaced Professor Snape in their sixth year, sitting next to an empty chair reserved for the new Deputy Headmaster, Professor Flitwick. On Professor Slughorn's other side was Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher. She was currently engaged in what seemed to be a deep conversation with Professor Sprout, the grey-haired, plump witch who taught Herbology and who rarely dispensed with her patched hat. Beside her, at the end of the table, sat a wizard Hermione didn't know. He was a very average-looking man, with a rather unmemorable face and brown hair. His hanging, dun-coloured robes, down-turned mouth, and deep shadows under his eyes made him look a bit like an underfed basset.

At the Headmistress' left side sat another person Hermione didn't recognise. It was a squat wizard of about fifty years old, with harsh features and a dark moustache. His stout frame was clad in dark red robes, and a silver monocle rested on the bridge of his nose, making it so that, despite the unassuming height, the wizard had an imposing air around him. Hermione had a feeling that this was a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Further down the table, looking musingly into her goblet, sat Professor Babbling who specialised in Ancient Runes, and beside her, the Arithmancy teacher Professor Vector could be seen listening with some wariness to whatever nasty things Professor Trelawney was predicting her. On the Divination teacher's left side was an attractive young woman dressed smartly in Muggle clothing. Hermione did not recognise this person, either. The witch possessed a distinctive shag of golden-blonde hair, and a set of full, blood-red lips attached to her heart-shaped face. She seemed very interested in the vigorous commentary of the Flying Instructor, Professor Hooch, with whom she was presently speaking.

Just then, Hermione saw Hagrid's lumbering figure approaching the high table, which meant the first years had finally crossed the lake. Sure enough, in the next moment, the doors from the Entrance Hall opened. In shuffled a line of scared-looking first years led by Professor Flitwick who was so short he could be taken for an eleven-year-old himself, but who, Hermione knew, was now Deputy Headmaster. In his hands, held above his head, was a stool on which an old wizard's hat sat.

The Hall fell into respectful silence as the procession passed by each of the House tables. Finally reaching the staff table, the first years lined up in front of it, facing the students, and Professor Flitwick placed before them the stool with the Sorting Hat atop it. He stepped back. After a beat when everyone stared at it, the Sorting Hat predictably burst into song.

The song went on for quite some time. The Hat didn't fail to mention that the war was over, and that, finally, Britain was free of the Dark Lord's presence. Referring to the victorious side as 'those of the Light', the Hat underlined the defeat of the Dark Forces, but lay emphasis on the importance of forgiveness, arguing that neither side of the conflict was completely untainted. Throughout the song, the differences between the four Houses were being unusually omitted, and instead, unity between the students was more encouraged than ever before. Once the Sorting Hat finished, the Hall broke out in applause. Most students, though, wore similar expressions of scepticism and reluctance as they muttered among each other, exchanging opinions and doubts.

"'Only through harmony will you prevail,'" Ron repeated mockingly, distaste clear on his face. "Like hell I'm going to hobnob with the greasy snakes."

Of course, Ron wasn't the only one with that attitude – practically everyone, students and teachers alike, were whispering with their neighbours, sending the Slytherins covert glances heavily tinged with uncertainty, distrust, and sometimes, like in Ron's case, open hostility. Hermione turned around to look as well. Surreptitiously, her gaze swept across the Slytherin table, taking in her schoolmates' exteriors, their sullen, defiant faces, shifty eyes, and hunched shoulders. Although they all were visibly trying to remain unconcerned, some were clearly more comfortable with the attention than the others.

Roughly at the centre of the table Hermione could see the back of Blaise Zabini's stiff form. Across from him, looking particularly anxious, was Pansy Parkinson, who seemed to be restraining herself from bolting from the Hall, and to her right Theodore Nott resolutely avoided everyone's eyes. Many heads were lowered, though whether it was in shame, guilt, or reluctance to face the scrutiny was anyone's guess. One fair-haired, confidently raised head drew Hermione's attention – for on Pansy's other side, ramrod-straight sat Draco Malfoy. Despite the fact that with Crabbe's death and Goyle's mysterious absence he was the most notorious and hated Slytherin after the war, Malfoy seemed to be holding his own quite well. Then again, Hermione supposed, if one had a year-long experience sitting at Voldemort's table, it might take some thrill away from being seated with his Slytherin compatriots. It was the younger students who looked the most miserable at being subjected to the school's purportedly furtive scrutiny – some of them were noticeably trembling.

Feeling somewhat guilty, Hermione turned away. "Stop staring!" she hissed to Ron.

"Why? They're all evil gits, anyway," Ron said, but he complied.

"Because it's rude. And you're making those twelve-year-old children over there uncomfortable – _they_ didn't do anything."

A sound of a throat being cleared came from the front of the Hall. Looking in that direction and seeing the tiny Professor Flitwick, most students ceased talking, though still some mutters could be heard.

"Aldwinckle, Howard," Professor Flitwick intoned, cutting through the noise. Hermione thought that witnessing her Charms teacher calling out the first years' names was just as strange as seeing Professor McGonagall in Professor Dumbledore's previous seat.

They all watched as a small boy with hair almost as dark as Harry's staggered forward. With trembling hands, he picked up the Sorting Hat, sat down on the stool, and placed the Hat on his head. After a moment of absolute silence, the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Howard Aldwinckle hurriedly put the hat back on the stool and then nearly ran towards the Hufflepuff table, where the students clapped and cheered for him wildly.

"Averill, Judy."

A blonde girl whose brilliant blue eyes were as wide as saucers tripped over her robes in her haste to get to the stool. Having quickly gotten to her feet, she sat down and put the hat on her head, much like Howard had done before her.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat announced finally, sending the Gryffindor table into hysterics. Grinning widely, Hermione applauded Judy Averill with the rest of her housemates, as the girl trotted to the end of the table with a dazed expression on her face.

As the hat continued sorting, the line of first years slowly thinned. It wasn't until 'Eddins, Wolfgang' was called that the cheerful atmosphere in the Hall thickened somewhat.

"SLYTHERIN!"

The short, round boy was the first student sorted into Slytherin that year, and he seemed absolutely terrified about that fact. Amidst the sparse applause from his new housemates, Wolfgang Eddins slowly made his way over to the nearest table, looking as though he might faint at any second. Astoria Greengrass welcomed him with what appeared to be a few warm words, and glared at the other three Houses who watched with judgement in their eyes. At the middle of the table, Hermione noticed, Draco Malfoy didn't seem very interested in the sorting, and was instead staring at the enchanted ceiling. Hermione glanced up, too – the sky was cloudless, and the moon was Waxing.

Another name was called, and Hermione turned her gaze back to the first years. At last, when 'Zebroski, Augustus' shuffled over to the Ravenclaws, Professor Flitwick rolled up his scroll, picked up the Sorting hat and the stool, and he carried them away.

Professor McGonagall stood up from her golden chair, then. Thin-lipped, she waited until all noise died down and everyone's eyes were on her. She scanned all four House tables with a hawk-like gaze before launching into a speech.

"There are several matters that need to be addressed before we can start feasting," the Headmistress intoned, her gaze sliding over the faces in front of her. "Most of all – welcome, and welcome back, to another year at Hogwarts. In view of last year's deplorable circumstances, I am heartened that so many of you have decided to arrive, and as a part of the teaching ensemble, I could not be more proud of you. Indeed, our numbers this year are high – there are those among you who are just beginning Hogwarts, those wishing to continue learning here, and lastly, those who have returned to repeat their seventh year in order to acquire N.E.W.T.s. Such a situation had not taken place since the demise of Grindelwald. With this in mind, I ask for your consideration and patience concerning the technical aspects of school life, as there are still some issues that call for attention before Hogwarts can be fully functional again."

Professor McGonagall paused for a moment, and just then a growling sound could be heard across the otherwise quiet hall. Hermione, together with half the school, turned to look at the red-faced Ron, whose stomach had just grumbled quite noisily. Professor McGonagall, though, gave the impression of not to having heard anything.

"The war is over," she spoke once more, her voice ringing throughout the room and regaining everyone's attention. "Once again, Hogwarts is open for all students, _regardless_ of blood status, or allegiances during the conflict. While we have certainly fought for freedom, we fought for justice and equality as well – and it is these values that granted us peace. As such, let me warn you right here that discrimination and bigotry of any sort will not be tolerated this year. The matters of harassing other students will be taken most seriously. I have said this before, and I will say it again: the war is over. By accepting the letter inviting you to Hogwarts this autumn, all of you have declared yourselves willing to put aside your differences and let go of prejudices. Therefore, bear in mind that disregard for this warning will result in severe consequences."

Silence followed these words, and even Ron looked distracted enough from his hunger to only blink at the Headmistress blankly. Professor McGonagall seemed undisturbed. "Continuing down the same path, a reminder of basic rules is definitely in order. Firstly, entrance to the Dark Forest is, as always, absolutely prohibited to all students, without exceptions." Here, Hermione caught Harry's gaze, then Ron's, and the three of them exchanged covert smiles. "Secondly, no student can enter the Restricted Section in the Library without a written permission from one of the professors. And thirdly, as you already know, Hogwarts is not yet fully rebuilt. It is possible you will encounter some corridors which are blocked by rubble, or to which access is otherwise limited. If you happen to come across those, do not think of trying to go into such a corridor, but instead inform a teacher immediately. Similarly, do not attempt to enter other parts of the castle that seem to have been damaged in the battle – notifying a teacher should be your first priority."

Several students had broken out in whispers even while the Headmistress was speaking, but once she finished, the Hall was already resounding with the hum of hushed talking.

"Did you hear that?" Ron asked in surprise. "'Corridors blocked by rubble'!" Then he looked a bit glum. "I mean, 'damaged' is one thing, but rubble..."

"I'm actually surprised at how well the castle seems to be restored," Ginny said. "Wonder how many places they still haven't fixed, though, eh? Just imagine it – this castle is huge!"

Neville, Ron, and Harry nodded, but Hermione frowned in contemplation. "I don't believe it's like that," she said, and the others looked at her. "Think about it – Professor McGonagall made it sound as though the parts in actual ruins were a rare sight now. I suspect those must be the few damaged sections in the castle that simply weren't reached for restoration, or went omitted." Then again, not only was Hogwarts an enormous building, like Ginny had pointed out, but it was also magical. It was impossible to determine how many and which sections were still in need of reparation. "Anyway," she ventured, suddenly uncertain. "I think we should really listen to Professor McGonagall in this case. If we do come across some debris... There could be things we don't want to encounter."

"What are you talki..." Ron began, but he trailed off with a look of quiet realisation on his face. Hermione averted her eyes. Indeed, not only could venturing into the ruins be incredibly dangerous, it could also mean chancing upon the decaying bodies of those killed in the final battle. Both the Dark and the Light side suffered considerable losses during that battle. Hermione wasn't sure how she would handle stumbling upon a dead classmate, massacred and barely recognisable, when she'd only just started adjusting to normality.

"Well, it's like Hermione said," Ginny offered hesitantly, now readily agreeing with Hermione's earlier statement. "What's the chance of us stumbling on those demolished places?"

"Actually," Harry joked, a bit uneasy, "I'd say pretty high, considering our past experiences."

They all looked at one another before grimacing. It was a valid point, indeed.

"If I could have your attention," Professor McGonagall rebuked the now freely talking students. "One last thing before we can begin the feast. As many of you have noticed, our teaching ensemble has changed once again this year. I would like you to welcome Professor Edulf Worple who is going to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts." The stout, bespectacled wizard sitting on Professor McGonagall's right side raised a hand, and the hall applauded politely. "Also, as Professor Freda Chissick has decided to retire, we are pleased to introduce our new Magical Theory teacher, Professor Mortimer Bones." The basset-looking wizard at the end of the table nodded slowly in acknowledgement. She waited until the applause died down before indicating the witch in a hat. "And lastly, due to Professor Burbage's tragic departure last year, Muggle Studies will now be taught by Professor Belinda Mockridge."

Hermione clapped together with everyone else, but her thoughts were far away. She remembered Harry describing the vision in which he'd witnessed Professor Burbage's murder over a year ago. For some reason, that train of thought was instantly followed by an image of a pale-looking Draco Malfoy, who had to have been present during that Death Eater gathering. Hermione resisted the urge to turn around and look at the Slytherin table.

At long last, the moment everybody had been waiting for came. Professor McGonagall clapped loudly twice, and immediately all five tables in the hall were filled to the brink with various foods.

"Oh, finally!" Ron cried excitedly as he set about eating whatever was in the nearest vicinity, without even bothering to put anything on his plate. "Loodi'ell, zisis uat aias aiding for!" he told Hermione with his mouth full of roast chicken.

"Swallow before you speak, Ron," Hermione grumbled, ridding her robes of the bits of meat that flew out of Ron's mouth.

Obediently, Ron made an enormous swallow. "I said that this was what I was waiting for," he grinned before taking another bite out of the roast chicken leg he was holding in his hand.

Falling back on the familiar route of simply looking at Ron disapprovingly, Hermione began to fill her own plate.

All around her, nearly everyone appeared to be chatting amicably while consuming the food, however throughout the feast, Hermione couldn't help but keep taking notice of the table farthest away from the Gryffindors. The Slytherins had never looked more stiff and reserved. The change from before the war was, to her mind, colossal – ever since they had entered the hall, there was not one obnoxious yell, absolutely no cruel jeering, and no bouts of raucous laughter. Instead, the atmosphere at that table was continuously morose, the conversations quiet, and the snickers sparse. Even Malfoy, who usually held court, stoically ate his steak. It all seemed a bit unreal, Hermione thought. She wondered briefly why she even cared, but the answer to that was long in coming.

Near the end of the feast, she turned in her seat to scan the Slytherin table one last time; she was surprised when her gaze was caught by another. Draco Malfoy, face pale and expressionless as ever, was staring straight back at her.

Frozen as she was by the cold calculation in his eyes, Hermione startled when a familiar warm arm was put around her waist. Looking to her right, she saw Ron's profile. He was facing the same direction she had just been, obviously glaring at Malfoy, although the Slytherin didn't seem to have noticed, as his gaze was still transfixed on Hermione. The colour of Ron's face was rapidly becoming that of his hair, but for what reason he was so angry, Hermione couldn't fathom. She prodded him lightly with her elbow. "Ron?"

Just then, Malfoy apparently became aware of Ron's glare. His lip curled in a familiar, disdainful scowl before he turned to a chattering Pansy Parkinson.

Ron didn't lose his frown as he continued to observe Malfoy. "I don't like the way he's looking at you," he told Hermione. "On the train, he was watching you, too – and later, when we were getting into our carriage. It's becoming bloody creepy." His hold on Hermione's waist tightened.

"I'm sure you're exaggerating," Hermione said carefully, and Ron finally turned around to meet her gaze. "It's just Malfoy. He's probably blaming me for not delivering a good enough testimony for his trial – and sulking because the Ministry's making him repeat the year."

Ron appeared somewhat reassured by this, but, try as might, Hermione couldn't so easily banish Malfoy's alert gaze from her mind. There was something in it that unnerved her. Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy had been completely still in his silent evaluation, moving not a muscle, as far as Hermione could see, and barely even breathing, or maybe it was just the intense look in his eyes. Whatever the case, Ron was right about one thing – it _was_ creepy and actually made her feel insecure. Threatened.

Hermione Granger did not take well to feeling threatened.

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While I wasn't going to have OC's here, it seemed unavoidable now... oh, well. But the three teachers and the students introduced in the previous chapter should be the only more prominent OC's in this story, I promise! Anyway, I hope you will come to like them :D


	7. The Confrontations

**Tuesday; 1 September 1998, 11:18 p.m.**

As the Start-of-Term Feast came to an end, Professor McGonagall dismissed everyone with a tight smile and a curtly-bidden goodnight. Draco made his descent to the Slytherin common room along with the rest of his housemates. He parted with Pansy (who started nattering to Daphne instead) and quickly reasserted himself by moving to the front of the group. He was pleased when the other Slytherins parted to let him through.

However, even as nobody openly opposed him, Draco was aware of their furtive glances and wary expressions. He had a vague idea what was going on in their heads—they were mistrustful. They didn't know what to make of him now that the war was over. Considering his own constant brooding during the Dark Lord's reign, Draco supposed his housemates' doubts towards him weren't totally unbiased. Remarkably, it didn't help that he was the only student-cum-Death Eater in school, either.

Regardless of the Slytherins' open support for the Dark side, a Slytherin's true loyalties usually laid, first and foremost, with their own. With the castle run by Death Eaters, Draco had often found himself out of the loop when it came to the happenings in Slytherin. It wasn't out of disrespect or disregard, though, that his housemates had taken to eschewing him—it had been out of distrust. With his primary allegiance to the Dark Lord, Draco had become something of a pariah among the other Slytherins. Of course, the fact that he'd been more often absent from class than he'd been in attendance did nothing to improve his image.

Not that Draco had cared much for it at the time—he'd had more important things on his mind. By then, it was no secret to anyone that Draco had been determined to remedy his and his family's position in the Dark Lord's ranks. Even his friends had been afraid he would sell them out. And rightly so—because, frankly, whatever little understanding of the word 'morals' Draco had possessed before the war, eluded him completely during his career as a Death Eater. There were many things he would have stooped to for the sake of bringing the Malfoy name back to grace.

Despite everything, Draco wasn't looking to gain back the Slytherins' trust at the moment. His authority was clearly still recognised, and, for now, this satisfied him. Truth be told, he'd been a bit worried about his reception in Slytherin before arriving at Hogwarts, but it turned out to be better than he'd expected. Perhaps his housemates were just as uncertain of their stance in Slytherin as Draco had been, or even more.

As they walked, hardly anyone in his vicinity spoke. Because of this, Draco was easily able to hear some lower year students at the back whispering to each other, as though he was two metres away, and not at the other end of the group. He could feel his lip curl. There was one conversation in particular that caught his attention.

"I don't know about you," a girl's voice said, "but I'm going to keep my head down this year. Daddy said it would be most beneficial for us Slytherins not to attract any attention at the moment."

"You don't say," a boy sneered in response; Draco thought he sounded familiar. "Brilliantly spoken, Queen Obvious! Got any other advice for us sorry twits? I can hardly wait."

"Oh, belt up, Baddock," said Astoria Greengrass, who brought up the rear of the entourage. The boy's full name dawned on Draco then—Malcolm Baddock, a fourth year who sometimes had been privileged to hang out with Draco's posse in the earlier years. "We don't need any bad blood among us—the Slytherins are hated far and wide as it is."

"Well, and who do we have to thank for that?" Malcolm Baddock hissed. Draco felt the boy's angry gaze at the back of his head, though with his next words, Baddock cautiously lowered his tone. "I'll tell you who. It's Malfoy's fault we're treated like some filthy Blast-Ended Screwts! Did you see what they write about him in the papers? 'The epitome of Slytherin charistics'! And you're wondering why everybody hates us."

"I think the word you meant is 'characteristics,'" the first girl said.

Baddock ignored her. "And guess what?" he asked in a whisper. "You know how he bought his way out of prison? Well, I hear our resident Death Eater is on probation right now. Know what that means? That the teachers can kick him out to Azkaban for the smallest transpassion!"

"I think you meant transgre—"

"From what I remember," interjected Astoria, "you weren't exactly this hostile towards the Death Eaters' cause two years ago, Baddock. In fact, I recall you parroting Malfoy on several occasions, word for word—"

"That was a long time ago, and I've changed," snarled Baddock. "The point is, we Slytherins are screwed because of Malfoy. What do you say we—"

"Are you crazy?" a fourth voice hissed; though high-pitched, Draco could tell it belonged to a male. "Don't talk about him so loudly—he can do the Cruciatus Curse!"

"Malfoy wouldn't risk a lifetime in Azkaban just because you called him names." Astoria sighed. "Seriously, think a little, you dolts, it doesn't hurt."

"But he can do other Dark spells, too," the younger girl from earlier said. "And he duelled Dumbledore."

"He's probably still in cahoots with the runaway Death Eaters!" the boy with the high-pitched voice added.

"Damn right he is," agreed Baddock, readily. "I mean, his _uncle_ is still on the loose! But anyway, as I was saying—"

"Shhhh," the younger girl shushed nervously. "Look, you can see him from here a little—see his face? I think he heard us..."

Draco tried to hold back a sneer, but his mouth rebelled and twisted. Losers, the lot of them. The four lower years carried on, but Draco managed to block out their mindless prattle, deciding he'd heard enough. It was not a minute later that the prefects at the lead reached the stretch of wall concealing the entrance to the common room, and the entire Slytherin entourage was brought to a standstill. Crossing his arms, Draco leaned against the opposite wall.

Blaise Zabini turned around to face the rest of the students. "The password is 'Caput Lupinum'," he said, and the wall shifted automatically. "It changes every month," he told the first years. "The current password is always pinned to the notice board in case you forget it. Your curfew begins at 7:30 p.m. If you're caught out after curfew, you'll lose House points and get detention. Are there any questions?"

The first years looked too terrified to be asking questions. Draco snorted.

It was like all Slytherins in years below his had suddenly been given freedom to look at him unreservedly, and not with secret glances.

"What?" Draco demanded when they just kept staring at him. "If you've got anything to say to me, then say it." Nobody spoke. Draco pushed away from the wall. "Yeah, that's what I thought," he said, stepping through the entrance to the common room.

Looking vaguely amused, Zabini followed him in, and the first years did as well. "The girls' dormitories are that way, and the boys'—this way." Zabini waved his hand respectively to the left and right side of the room, as Draco threw himself into a black leather armchair near the fireplace. "Breakfast is at eight, and classes start at nine. Well, I suppose that's all. Goodnigh—"

"Hold up, Zabini," a voice called. Draco turned to see Astoria Greengrass marching into the room. "Aren't you forgetting something? You're the oldest Slytherin prefect here, so learn to take some responsibility." She addressed the first years then. "This one here is Blaise Zabini. Don't let him intimidate you—he's just acting like a prat. If you've got questions, don't be afraid to ask any of the prefects. We'll all try to help you."

At Astoria's pointed glare, Zabini rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, of course I'll try to help."

Astoria seemed satisfied. "My name's Astoria Greengrass," she told the first years. "If you want to find other prefects, the list of names is on the board right there." She pointed to the information board hanging by the entrance of the common room. "It's late, so unless you want to sleep in tomorrow, you should head to bed. The first years' dormitories are those nearest in both the boys' and girls' corridors; you'll find plate names on the doors. That should be about it."

Nodding her goodbye, Astoria headed to the girls' corridor without more fuss. It was late, so the other Slytherins followed her example soon after, clearing out of the common room. Draco was the last one to go. For a long time, he sat in his armchair and stared at the fireplace, thinking.

He was back at Hogwarts. This was going to be a long year.

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**Wednesday; 2 September 1998, 7:42 a.m.**

**Slytherin Dormitories**

Draco woke up to the sounds of talking and moving about. He cast a quick _Tempus_ spell to find out what time it was, and then sighed into his pillow.

It was morning already, but Draco felt utterly worn-out. He hadn't slept well—nightmares plagued his sleep, though he couldn't remember now what they were about. After lying in bed for a few more minutes, Draco slowly dragged himself from under the covers and opened the curtains.

As the Slytherin dorms were located in the dungeons, where there were no windows, the Slytherins mainly relied on torches and magic to provide them with light. Draco usually didn't mind it, but mornings were an exception—he always had trouble getting up for classes.

He nodded a sleepy greeting to Zabini, who sat on the neighbouring bed, gathering his textbooks, and ignored Nott, who'd paused to stare at him.

Since Crabbe had died in the fire and Goyle opted out of Hogwarts, Draco was left to share the dormitory only with Zabini and Nott. He was grateful for the added privacy, even if it was for the price of his mates' absence. He knew Goyle blamed him for Crabbe's death, and that he'd taken it much harder than Draco had—but then, Crabbe and Goyle had always been closer with each other than Draco was with them.

A lukewarm shower several minutes later didn't help to clear his head of the gloomy thoughts. It wasn't like Crabbe's death was his fault, Draco knew—the idiot had brought it on himself. Regardless of Goyle's unspoken accusation, Draco refused to feel guilty. Who in their right mind used Fiendfyre if they knew they couldn't control it, anyway? Crabbe had been so fucking stupid.

Draco was so lost in thought while brushing his teeth that he almost failed to notice that what he spat into the sink was not white, but dark pink in colour. Pausing with his hand on the tap, he tongued the inside of his mouth. He wasn't surprised to find his gums bleeding.

Mentally shoving Crabbe's death to the back of his mind, Draco cursed to himself.

"Not this again..."

He hadn't thought much of it at first, when it had started happening some three months ago, but, by now, Draco was fairly sure he knew the reason his gums were so sensitive. He rinsed his mouth and then looked into the mirror, pulling his lips back to expose the canines.

They hadn't been this long back in June, of that he was certain. His canines were steadily growing.

"Damn it."

He took a deep breath, holding onto the edges of the basin. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? He'd never heard of werewolves developing physical characteristics of a wolf, aside from the full moon transformation, so soon after being infected. Draco remembered Greyback's beast-like appearance and behaviour, but he knew that was different. Greyback had relished in being a monster—not to mention the fact that he'd been a werewolf for decades. It wasn't the same. Draco stared at himself in the mirror. Was he going to wholly resemble a wolf in a few years' time? Salazar, he hoped he wouldn't start growing a tail next week, or fur. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the unshaved whiskers under his fingers. Then, Draco shook his head, letting his hand fall back onto the basin. He was just being paranoid. Nevertheless, he concluded that a visit to the library later certainly wouldn't hurt.

He was almost finished shaving when Zabini's testy voice from behind the door urged him to hurry up. Draco made a final sweep with the razor before rinsing the lather from his face. He gave himself one last look in the mirror, and then left the bathroom, ignoring Zabini's grumbling.

It turned out that Nott was still in the dormitory. He was writing a letter, by the looks of it, and seemed perfectly at ease. Draco marvelled at it—if their roles were reversed, Draco wouldn't be anywhere near as indifferent, knowing that a werewolf was standing a few feet away, in the same room.

But then, he became suspicious. Who was Nott writing to, anyway, so early after arriving at Hogwarts? Was he telling them about Draco's condition? Had he already told anyone? Draco watched him from the corner of his eye as he crossed the room and began absently packing textbooks into his bag.

It wouldn't really make sense, though, Draco reasoned with himself. If Nott wanted to expose Draco's secret, he'd have done so by now, wouldn't he?

"I haven't told anyone, if that's what you're thinking."

It took him a second to realise that Nott had actually spoken. Draco glanced towards the bathroom, from where the sound of falling water could be heard—Zabini was apparently taking a shower. He looked back at Nott. "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

Nott sighed. "Malfoy, please... Are we going to play this game now?" He set his quill aside. "Don't insult my intelligence. We both know what I'm talking about—I know what you are. I know that you're a—"

Draco was in his face not two seconds later, his hand clamping roughly over Nott's mouth, his voice a furious rasp. "_Shut up, shut up!_ Shut the fuck up!" Looking over his shoulder at the bathroom door, he dug his fingers deeper into the cheekbones beneath. "Not another word—don't even think of fucking saying it. Do you hear me?" Nott just stared up at him with wide eyes. Keeping hold of his face with one hand, Draco slowly drew his wand from the pocket of his robes, and held it to his classmate's throat. "Not ever, Nott."

"Mmhmphf," came a muffled response. Draco loosened his fingers a fraction.

"Okay..." This time, it was more discernible, though still stifled by Draco's hand. "Okay... Calm down. I won't say it. I wasn't going to tell anyone." Nott tried to inch away, but Draco didn't allow it; he jerked the other boy's face forward and pressed his wand deeper in the pulsating jugular. "Okay, okay, I get it," breathed Nott. "Merlin, Draco, just calm down, alright—I'm not your ene—"

"How did you find out?" Draco demanded.

"I'll tell you, but—can you take your hand away, first? It's hard to talk like this."

Draco didn't release him. "Then you'd better get over it! Answer me, how did you find..." He cut off, glancing over his shoulder again; the shower had just been turned off. Adjusting his grip on Nott's jaw, Draco whispered to him harshly, "Never mind that—we're not going to talk about this now." He brought his face closer, making sure to keep eye contact. "Listen to me, Nott, and listen carefully. I don't want this getting out—you won't tell anybody about it, and you won't hint at it. You won't fucking look at me funny when people can see you and become suspicious. Do you understand? If word of my... if word gets out, I'll know it was you, and I will make you regret it." He made a pause to let that sink in. "I'm serious, Nott—I'll kill you if you tell anyone. I'll rip your fucking throat out with my teeth, and I won't bother waiting until full moon. And don't think it's an empty threat. I've got little to lose as it—and not many inhibitions left, either."

There was a moment of silence as they stared at one another, breathing heavily. Finally, Draco released his grip and stepped back.

Nott swayed backwards, catching himself with both hands on the mattress. He looked up at Draco in disbelief. "What the hell, Malfoy?" He shook his head slightly, fingers coming up to feel his jaw. "I thought we were... We used to be friends. I wouldn't sell you out."

That wasn't exactly what Draco had expected to hear now. But put like that... He swallowed thickly as he pocketed his wand. He was unable to look at Nott anymore.

It was pathetic, but Draco was only starting to see how desperate he really was. Unhinged—that was how he was acting. Who was he kidding? He was going insane with the mere thought of having his condition exposed. This _goddamn_ _curse_ brought him to this state. With a shaking hand, Draco reached for his bag and shouldered it.

"I'll see you later, Nott," he said as he left the room.

.

* * *

.

**Wednesday; 2 September 1998, 8:31 a.m.**

The Great Hall was abuzz with chatter and the sounds of clinking cutlery.

"You must be joking!" Ron groaned despairingly, letting a forkful of scrambled egg fall back to his plate. "Transfiguration first thing in the morning, and it's a double!"

"It could be worse," consoled Harry. "Imagine if it was History of Magic with Binns."

At all four tables, the Heads of Houses were in the process of giving out class timetables. Unfortunately for Ron, Professor McGonagall was still within earshot, and so she'd heard him gripe about the subject of her lessons. For his tactlessness, Ron was shot a stern look, which he, of course, failed to notice. Hermione watched as Professor McGonagall shook her head before handing a schedule to Parvati Patil.

As it had turned out, due to shortage of teaching staff and the fact that no other Professor had been a Gryffindor, the Headmistress had decided to resume her position as a Transfiguration teacher, as well as continue being the Gryffindor Head of House. Hermione found that both impressive and worrying—the load of work Professor McGonagall was now dealing with had to be enormous.

"Hey, we've got Herbology today, too!" Neville said, looking elated. "Fantastic. I heard Professor Sprout is going to make an exception for us eight years and show us Devil's Snare in our first lesson—and Devil's Snare isn't normally covered at Hogwarts, at all! Isn't it fantastic?"

'Eight years', Hermione knew, was an unofficial term for the students who were supposed to have sat N.E.W.T.s this summer, but decided to repeat the year instead. Therefore, eight years weren't really above seventh years educationally, but they did have a slightly more demanding curriculum.

"Only you would get excited over that, Neville," said Dean. Neville looked sheepish. "But back to the topic... Look at Friday—we _do_ actually have double History of Magic this year..."

"That's what you get for wanting to be a solicitor." Seamus laughed. "The rest of us knew better and dropped out of Binns' class when we still could."

"You dug your own grave, mate," added Ron, smiling smugly. "Even Hermione here gave up History of Magic after O.W.L.s. That's when you knew staying was suicide by boredom."

Hermione looked up from studying her own timetable. "I—I did _not_ opt out because of... that," she argued, lamely. "I just don't need History of Magic N.E.W.T. for my future career. There's nothing wrong with Professor Binns' teaching style."

"Except for putting everybody to sleep," said Ron, and Hermione swatted him under the table. At that moment, an exchange of urgent whispers could be heard a few feet away. Hermione, together with the other eight years, quietened, watching curiously as a pair of Hufflepuff girls approached, still engrossed in hushed conversation.

"You ask him!" one girl said.

"No, you ask him," the other replied. "It was your idea."

They couldn't have been older than fourteen.

"But you said you'd start..."

"Only because you made me say it! You put the words in my mouth..."

"Oh, come on, Elle—don't be such a pansy– oh!" The girls both jumped up, suddenly aware that they were being stared at. Hermione had an idea what this was about. "Oh, er, hi! That is, hello. Er, we just came to, um... to ask if..."

"W-what Laura wants to say," the other girl cut in, looking at Harry and blushing profusely, "is that we were wondering if... well... if you could, perhaps, sign this for us, Mr Potter." She produced a simple, yellow t-shirt, and Laura took out hers.

Harry looked very uncomfortable. "Er... I don't really..."

"Come on, Harry!" Seamus laughed, clapping Harry on the back. "The poor lassies are asking for an autograph! How can you say no to them?"

"Please? It'd mean a lot," pleaded Laura, while Elle nodded earnestly. "We admire you a lot, Mr Potter—I mean, you're our saviour!" They both blushed.

"Thanks, but I'm not..." Harry grimaced, glancing around himself, clearly in hope that not too many people were paying attention to this scene. He slumped in his seat, and Hermione knew he would agree just to make these girls go away. "Oh, okay, sure... I suppose..."

Elle laid out her t-shirt on the edge of the table and handed Harry a quill, looking reverential. Moments later, Laura did the same.

"And if you could also write a dedication—for Laura—that'd be really wonderful!" said Laura.

Harry did write a dedication, though his expression after the ordeal was that of extreme embarrassment. Then Laura and Elle looked at Ron and Hermione with shining eyes.

"Oh, no, I didn't really do anything..." began Hermione, knowing now very well what was coming.

"Please?" said Laura, drawing out the word; it was clear that both she and her friend were becoming more confident the longer they stood there. "You're a heroine, Ms Granger! We heard you got Mr Potter out of trouble every time, is it true? Personally, you're kind of like an idol to me!"

"And Mr Weasley, too! We've read all the articles about your bravery and incredible duelling skills!" added Elle.

Neither Hermione nor Harry (and especially not Ron, who seemed content soaking in the attention) bothered telling them that half the things they'd read in the _Prophet_ after the war was greatly exaggerated. They had tried clarifying it to their admirers at first, but all they got in response was patronisation—people just didn't want to accept the truth. Eventually, Harry and Hermione became tired of being lectured on how unattractive fake modesty was.

She really didn't feel like doing it, but Ron was already signing Elle's t-shirt, looking very pleased with himself, and Hermione couldn't think of how to get out of this (and she didn't have the heart to refuse the girls, either). In the end, she accepted Laura's offered quill. Once the autograph was made, Hermione held the t-shirt back to the younger girl, but it was Ron who snagged it from her grasp.

"Here, let's swap," he said, and swiftly placed Elle's t-shirt in front of Hermione, for her to sign. It was all Hermione could do not to hit him upside the head and knock the stupid grin off his face.

Three minutes later, they were on their way to Transfiguration, and Hermione wasn't talking to Ron. Ron didn't know why that was. In fact, he didn't even seem to have realised Hermione wasn't talking to him, which was a bit sad.

"Come on, Hermione, what's wrong?" he asked pleadingly, trotting a step behind her; she'd set a fairly fast pace. "You can tell me. Are you mad because of those girls? Laura and Elle? I know, they were a bit annoying, weren't they?"

Hermione whirled on him, her bag swinging and almost hitting Harry in the stomach. "Oh, they were annoying, were they?" she hissed, glaring at Ron. "You didn't look very annoyed to me when they were praising you for things you didn't do!"

"What?" Ron blinked, evidently bemused. Then, realisation filled his eyes. "Oh, Hermione! Is this what it is about—you're jealous? You don't have to be, you know you're the only one I..."

Hermione didn't stay to hear the rest. With a frustrated cry, she swivelled back around and tromped off to class, alone.

.

* * *

.

An hour and a half later, Hermione's anger at Ron abated somewhat. Truth be told, she wasn't even sure why she'd been so angry with him—it just annoyed her when Ron was so busy lapping up praise that he completely disregarded her feelings. She hated how clueless he was sometimes.

"How was Transfiguration?" Ginny asked from a sofa, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the common room. Having had to climb all the way up from the ground floor (where the Transfiguration classroom was located) to the seventh floor, they were panting slightly. Now, they all had a free period—even Hermione, who was taking seven N.E.W.T.-level classes.

"Oh, you know," said Ron, collapsing into an armchair while Harry sat beside Ginny, kissing her on the lips. Hermione chose an armchair opposite Ron's and extracted a copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ from her bag. "The usual. McGonagall's already dished us out a one-foot long essay on the most common Untransfigurative spells, and the Slytherins were being greasy gits. Nothing new."

"Those snakes!" said Ginny. "What did they do this time?" She looked Harry over, as though checking for injuries.

"Well, you know," Ron said again, and then frowned. "I don't know, actually. They just were there—I don't need another reason to hate them, right? Especially Malfoy. It's the principle of the thing." He glanced at Hermione, but his attention was soon caught by Harry and Ginny snogging. "Bloody hell, don't do that when I'm in the room!"

Ginny retracted her mouth from Harry's. "Oh, shut up, Ron. If you're jealous, Hermione's sitting right there," she said before winking at Hermione. "I've no idea how she can enjoy it, but if you ask, maybe she'll let you snog her, too."

As Ron turned a deep shade of red, Hermione became very engrossed in reading her textbook. She was still feeling somewhat sulky, and kissing Ron was not something she really wanted to do at the moment.

"Hermione?" said Ron, his voice uncertain. "Are you still angry with me? Because you know I'd never... with those girls..."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and stuffed the textbook back into her bag. "No, Ron, I'm not angry with you. I overreacted. It's nothing." She got up. "I need to visit the library—start on that Transfiguration essay."

"But it's only due on —"

"I know, Ron—and you know me. The sooner, the better." She lifted her chin a bit. "You and Harry should probably get down to it as well, instead of writing it at the last minute—like you always do."

Harry grinned. "Probably."

"We'll see you in Herbology, yeah?" asked Ron.

"Of course," replied Hermione. "Talk to you at dinner, Ginny."

"Sure. Good luck with Transfiguration—doubt you'll need it, though."

.

* * *

.

Although the Transfiguration essay was an excuse, Hermione figured that since she was already out of the common room, she might as well start it now. It wasn't like she had anything better to do, anyway—they'd only had one class so far, and there was still over half an hour until the next period. If nothing else, that was enough time to find the materials and resources she would need to write the paper. And besides, Untransfiguration in general was quite an interesting subject. She certainly wouldn't be bored reading about it.

With all that in mind, Hermione headed down to the third floor, and then into the corridor leading to the Hogwarts Library. The castle was large, and the hallways empty—those students, who weren't in class at the moment, were either out on the grounds or in the common rooms. Hermione had been fairly sure she wouldn't meet anybody on her way—that is, until another set of footsteps could be heard coming from the other end of the corridor.

Judging from the sound, the person had a confident gait and expensive shoes. As she looked up, Hermione wasn't, and at the same time was, surprised to see Malfoy.

She faltered a bit in her step, and Malfoy, still several metres away, did the same.

The library door was right beside him—much closer than it was to Hermione—but Malfoy merely flicked a glance at it. He didn't go in. Instead, to Hermione's disquiet, he started slowly advancing straight on her. In turn, Hermione quickened her pace, moving close to the wall and hoping to get around him without any problems. She wanted to get to the safety of the library. There was something in Malfoy's eyes that she didn't like.

"Out on a stroll, Granger?" Malfoy drawled when he was near enough. He eyed her bag full of books. "But of course not. You were going to the library."

"I _am_ going to the library," corrected Hermione, halting as he moved into her path. "Not that it's any of your business what I do, Malfoy. Why don't you step out of my way?"

Standing some five metres away, Malfoy ignored her demand. "Transfiguration, right?" He paused expectantly, and then hummed. "Essay to write and all. I mean, that's why you're here, isn't it?" Still, she refused to respond. "I'd bet... Not that I'm surprised, mind—it is you, after all."

Hermione frowned, but said nothing. Technically, he hadn't insulted her yet, even if his voice held a note of scorn. She didn't know what to expect of this post-war Malfoy. There was still that unnerving look in his eyes—it was the same look she'd caught him giving her yesterday at the feast, and today in Transfiguration.

"Why so silent, Granger?" Malfoy asked quietly. "Don't want to talk to me?" He moved a step closer and Hermione took one back, watching him carefully. "You know, I've been wondering something. It's about you, actually. You seem different somehow. I can't figure it out."

She was becoming increasingly uneasy with this situation. "Look, Malfoy, I've got no time for this. If you don't mind..." She made as if to skirt around him, but Malfoy blocked her way. Huffing, Hermione tried to walk through the gap between his body and the wall. She only managed one step—then, there was a sharp movement, and Malfoy's open hand slammed against the wall.

Hermione jumped, startled despite herself.

"Strange, isn't it?" breathed Malfoy. "You make me curious. Almost intrigued. Would you believe it?" Before Hermione could speak, Malfoy snarled out, "I don't. It's all very fucking strange, indeed. Since the Ministry, you're—you're _everywhere_. Why? I know it's no fluke. _You_ did something."

Blinking rapidly, Hermione could only stare up at him, bewildered and a little frightened. "What are you—"

"Is it to get back at me or something? For calling you Mudblood or whatever?" Malfoy sneered, white teeth flashing in the torch light. "Well, you must be having a laugh now. But don't get used to it. I'll tell you once—don't try my patience, Granger. Stop fucking provoking me. It's disgusting."

Floored, Hermione tried to find her bearings. She couldn't take her gaze away from Malfoy's teeth—his canines seemed very long.

"You're insane," was the first thing out of her mouth when she shook out of her stupor. "I—I've got no idea what you're talking about. This is..." But she couldn't think what it was, with Malfoy hovering over her like a vulture. She had to pull back.

Malfoy was there in a second, eyes glinting oddly; Hermione found herself with her back against the wall. "Running away? I don't think so, Granger." His hand was now planted beside her head. He leaned down a fraction, and Hermione thought he might be smelling her hair.

She could, in all sincerity, say that she had never before been genuinely scared of Malfoy. However, at that moment, he was making her blood run cold. She didn't even understand it herself—it was some kind of primal fear, born from instincts, not logic. Something seemed wrong, something about Malfoy was off. She felt like prey in face of a predator.

"I'm getting tired of feeling like this," Malfoy breathed. "Frankly, it's getting annoying. So, say, Granger—you wouldn't happen to have anything to do with it?"

"To do with what—"

But Malfoy seemed to be on a roll. "Is it a curse? A potion? Tell me, what the hell did you do to me?"

"I didn't do anything to you! What on earth are you—"

"You're lying!" snarled Malfoy, shoving her harder against the wall, and immediately retracting his hand, as though burned. "I know you did something! There's no way I'd... I don't care about your pathetic attempts at revenge, or whatever it is you did this for. I want you to remove this goddamn curse!"

Barely did Malfoy finish the sentence, when the door further down the corridor grinded open. To Hermione's relief, Malfoy jumped away from her.

"_What in blazes is going on here_?" Madam Pince demanded lividly, as she flew out of the library. "_What_ are you two doing here, yelling like a bunch of crazed baboons? You could be heard all the way here, behind closed door! This is a _library_!" She wheezed, shaking her head, and glaring at Malfoy and Hermione in turns. "Outrageous! What despicable behaviour! Next time you want to engage in absurd altercations, you will do it somewhere far from here!"

Hermione felt the automatic need to defend herself. "But I didn't—Malfoy was—"

"Quiet! I don't want to hear it!" the librarian interrupted, seething. "You," she barked at Malfoy. "In the library, now. You," she said to Hermione. "Be on your way—off you go!"

Hermione could tell this was a punishment—Madam Pince obviously knew Hermione was here to visit the library, and she'd probably assumed Malfoy had been only passing by. "But it was Malfoy who..."

"That is enough! Off with you—_right now!_"

There was a second's hesitation before Hermione nodded and smoothed out her skirt. It was merely the first day of school, and she'd already been scolded by an authority. It was all Malfoy's fault! Her absurd fear from earlier receding, she looked at the Slytherin angrily—but Malfoy didn't seem to be paying her any attention anymore. His eyes were fixed on the wall instead, somewhere above Hermione's shoulder. Although his face appeared impassive, his stance was tense, and his arms crossed. He was clearly waiting for her to walk away first.

Sniffing, Hermione drew up to her full height, and turned on her heel. She couldn't believe she'd let Draco Malfoy get to her like that—it was embarrassing. Hermione left, her heartbeat still racing traitorously, her thoughts a mad jumble.

.

.

.

* * *

Finally there's a new segment! I feel bad for taking so long :(

I can't believe it's chapter 7 already, and it was Draco and Hermione's first actual encounter. The Werewolf is kind of really, really slow-paced, isn't it? But fear not, after this, there're be many, many Dramione moments to come! Well... Maybe not 'Dramione' exactly, because, let's face it, these two still despise each other, but they'll be seeing each other more often :D That being said...

I feel I probably should've warned you sooner, but this story might be going to contain/touch on some disturbing themes and scenes! It turns out my mind can be a weird place sometimes, and my imagination often tends to run in odd directions when it comes to writing The Werewolf. Expect bizarre developments, less-than-moral choices, lots of blood, disgusting gore, countless unexplainable murders, graphic torture, and all-out carnage.

No, I'm probably laying it on thick :D

Or am I?

Thanks to everyone who reviewed/followed/faved/read/bothered to take a look :) You guys are lovely.


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